"THE 
DEBATABLE  LAND 


A  S  t  o  r  y  of  M  o  d  e  r  n 

Ajm  e  r  i  c  a  n    L  i  f  e  -  ~     ~ 


E  FOLLOWING  IS  A  LIST  OF  TWELVE 
-*•  AMERICAN  NOVELS  PUBLISHED  BY 
HARPER&  BROTHERS  DURING  IQOI,  WRITTEN 
FOR  THE  MOST  PART  BY  NEW  AMERICAN 
WRITERS,  AND  DEALING  WITH  DIFFERENT 
PHASES  OF  CONTEMPORARY  AMERICAN  LIFE. 

"EASTOVER  COURT  HOUSE."  By  HENRY 
BURNHAM  BOONE  and  KENNETH  BROWN. 

"THE  SENTIMENTALISTS."    By  ARTHUR 
STANWOOD  PIER. 

"MARTIN  BROOK."     By  MORGAN  BATES. 
"A  VICTIM   OF  CIRCUMSTANCES."     By 

GERALDINE  ANTHONY. 
"  DAYS    LIKE    THESE."     By   EDWARD  W. 

TOWNSEND. 

"  WESTERFELT."     By  WILL  N.  HARBEN. 
"THE   MANAGER  OF  THE  B  &  A."     By 

VAUGHAN  KESTER. 
"THE    SUPREME     SURRENDER."      By 

A.  MAURICE  Low. 
"THE    STRENGTH    OF    THE    HILLS." 

By  FLORENCE  WILKINSON. 
"LET   NOT  MAN    PUT  ASUNDER."     By 

BASIL  KING. 
"WHEN    LOVE     IS    YOUNG."      By    ROY 

ROLFE   GlLSON. 

"THE  DEBATABLE  LAND."     By  ARTHUR 

COLTON. 


"THE 

DEBATABLE 
LAND" 


Jflobel 


By 

Arthiir  Co  It  on 

7 


New  York  and  London 

Harper  &  Brothers  Publishers 
1901 


Copyright,  1901,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 

All  rights  reserved. 


TO 


R.    H.    LOINES 


"  For  the  Debatable  Land,  being  that  portion  of 
ground  which,  lying  between  two  countries,  belongeth 
to  neither,  does  of  all  regions  abound  most  in  disturb 
ance,  adventures,  even  legends,  and,  as  men  say,  in 
warlocks  and  witches.  Thus  the  astute  German,  Her- 
mantius,  significantly  calleth  the  region  of  youth  a 
debatable  land,  and  seeketh  to  illustrate  time  by  space.'* 
—  The  Dictionary  of  Devices. 


Contents 

PART  I 


CHAPTER 


I.  "  H inter  die  Kirche  bluhe  die  blaue  Blume 

der  Zufriedenheit " 3 

II.  Of  Thaddeus  Bourn  and  his  Purposes  .     .       n 

III.  Of  Morgan  Map  and  his  Purposes  .     .     ..    .       24 

IV.  In  which  Thaddeus  uses  the  term  "  Moral 

Justification" 32 

V.  Introducing   Hamilton    and    Saint    Mary's 

Organ 41 

VI.  Introducing  Gard  Windham  and  the  Broth 

erhood  of  Consolation 56 

VII.  Introducing  Moselle  and  Mavering  ....       71 

VIII.  Of  Mrs.  Mavering,  and  of  the  Philosophy  of 

the  Individual 85 

IX.  Of  Estates  in  Happiness  ......       99 

X.  Of   Spring    in    Hamilton  — Of   Thaddeus' s 

Opportunity  to  be  Candid     .     .     .     .     118 
XL      The    Whirlpool  —  Mr.    Paulus's    Reminis 
cences  of  Women 135 

PART  II 

XII.  Antietam 149 

XIII.  In  which   Appears    a  General  of  Division, 

and  one  of  "the  Brethren"  .     .     .     .     164 


Contents 

•CHAPTER  PAGE 

XIV.  In  which  Havering  Concludes  that  Cavalry 

Officers  as  a  Class  are  Eccentric  and 
Deep 181 

XV.  Treats  of  the  Distribution  of  Tracts  in  the 

Valley  of  the  Shenandoah     ....     192 

XVI.  Which  Discloses  one  Daddy  Joe,  and  Dis 

poses  of  an  Evangelist 207 

XVII.  On  the  Question  of  the  Exact  Location  of 

the  Divinity  which  is  Ultimately  Called 
Worth  While 223 

XVIII.  In  which  there  is  Discovered  a  Compunction     235 

XIX.  In  which  Windham  Drops  Out  of  the  Fight 

*—and  Havering  Remarks  on  Human 
Adaptability 253 

XX.  Treats  of  Further  Incidents  in  the  House 

with  the  White  Door 264 

XXL      In  which  We  Go  Down  the  River  and  Re 
turn  274 

XXII.  Of    Havering,   who    Disappears  —  Of    the 

Gray  Poet — Of  Morgan,  Who  Appears 
Once  More 286 

XXIII.  The  End 307 


part  f 


"The    Debatable    Land" 


Chapter  I 

"Hinter  die  Kirche  bliihe  die  blaue  Blume  der  Zu- 
friedenheit."— MEISTER  ECKHART. 

WIDOW  BOURN'S  house  stood  behind  the 
church,  and  blue  flowers  grew  contentedly 
on  the  sloping  green,  shy  fancies  of  a  maiden 
spring  that  never  lasted  out  a  summer's  ex 
perience.  New  England  churches  have  not 
that  air  of  nestling  comfort  which  seemed  to 
Meister  Eckhart  so  sweet  a  symbol.  They 
crown  the  hills  with  square  frames  and  sharp 
ened  steeples,  churches  militant,  plate-mailed 
in  clapboards,  with  weather-vane  aimed  de 
fiantly  into  the  wind.  Their  doors  are  closed, 
their  windows  shuttered  against  all  days  of 
the  week  saving  one.  But  Widow  Bourn 
found  the  proximity  comfortable.  The  church 
militant  faced  the  issues  of  the  spirit  for  her, 
and  subdued  them.  She  plodded  through 
her  Bible,  drawing  contentment  from  texts 

3 


'•The    Debatable    Land" 

that  meant  no  such  matter,  seeing  in  the  ec- 
clesiast's  despondency  only  reflections  con 
nected  here  and  there  with  sermons.  "It  is  a 
pleasant  thing  to  stand  on  the  shore  when 
other  people  are  in  the  floods/'  the  melancholy 
Roman  poet  remarked,  meaning  that  it  would 
be,  because  it  was  something  his  ever-journey 
ing  spirit  in  the  waste  seas  of  thought  ren 
dered  impracticable  for  himself. 

A  gate  opened  from  the  widow's  garden  on 
the  sloping  green.  Heavy-scented  lilacs,  pur 
ple  and  white,  hung  over  it,  and  followed  the 
fence  at  fragrant  intervals.  Lilacs  crowded 
along  the  garden  walls,  pushed  against  green 
pillars  of  the  porch  and  drooped  luxurious 
heads  at  the  windows.  Lilacs  are  tropical  and 
anti  -  puritan ;  they  belong  with  the  chuckle 
of  lutes  over  low  casements,  and  liquid  voices 
speaking  a  vo welled  tongue.  Widow  Bourn 
was  pleasant-tempered,  placid,  possessed  of  a 
stillness,  a  certain  dignity,  and  a  frame  not 
overpadded,  but  comfortable. 

The  Bourns  were  early  settlers  in  Hagar. 
The  settlers  were  still  feeling  their  way  in  the 
wilderness  beyond  the  Connecticut,  sensible 
farmers  who  bargained  for  whole  mountain 
ranges  and  valleys  of  the  magnificent  savage, 

4 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

and  recorded  the  transaction  in  minutes  of  the 
town-meeting.  The  magnificent  savage  com 
monly  declared  that  his  heart  was  great;  he 
would  sell  the  lands  from  the  crooked  lake  to 
the  joining  of  swift  rivers  to  his  white  brothers, 
who  marked  the  boundaries  inferred  from  the 
sachem's  oratory,  and  omitted  to  comment  on 
the  humor  of  it  in  minutes  of  the  town-meet 
ing.  When  the  first  Simon  Bourn  piled  hewn 
beams  for  his  cabin  and  ran  his  plough  around 
stumps  of  trees  that  had  furnished  the  beams 
there  were  few  cabins  in  the  neighborhood, 
and  the  town-meeting  was  held  fifteen  miles 
away.  The  last  Simon  Bourn  ran  his  plough 
along  the  same  hill-side,  not  dodging  the  same 
stumps,  but  the  hill-side  still  drew  up  stones 
out  of  its  inner  perversity  to  check  his  plough. 
He  found  the  slope  of  his  life,  like  the  slope 
of  his  ancestral  fields,  unfertile,  shallow-soiled. 
The  five  generations  of  Bourns  had  accumu 
lated  and  transmitted  this  opinion  of  their  lives 
and  hilly  fields,  that  on  the  whole  they  were 
not  justified. 

Simon  died  in  the  early  fifties  and  was  bur 
ied  in  Hagar's  hemlocked  graveyard.  Oddly 
enough,  he  seemed  to  regret  it.  Widow  Bourn 
associated  herself  with  this  regret,  but  regret 

5 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

has  commonly  an  element  of  interrupted  pos 
sibilities  in  it,  and  these  must  have  lain  the 
rather  in  Nellie,  a  yellow-headed,  long-limbed, 
swift-footed  maiden  whose  level  gray  eyes  had 
in  them  a  certain  challenge  and  accusation, 
and  whose  years  were  ten. 

"Don't  let  Nellie  forget  me,"  he  said,  and 
the  graver  carved  on  his  tombstone,  "Re 
member  Me."  Simon  perhaps  intended  it 
only  for  Nellie,  but  that  did  not  prevent  its 
forcing  the  passer  to  "remember"  him,  who 
never  knew  him  and  did  not  care  about  it. 
"  Simon  Bourn — Born ,  Died .  Remem 
ber/'  in  raised  letters  on  a  white  tombstone, 
stared  out  of  the  green  gloom  of  the  hemlocks. 
So  the  Elder  Hamlet  desired,  "Remember  Me." 
"  Remember  thee,  poor  ghost?"  Why  re 
member?  Go  your  ways,  Simon  Bourn,  and 
trouble  us  not.  It  might  have  struck  the 
public  as  egotistic,  which  was  only  a  pathetic 
impulse  pointing  to  Nellie,  if  the  public  had 
not  been  in  the  habit  of  accepting  epitaphs  of 
all  kinds  with  a  tolerance  born  of  experience. 

One  could  understand  the  exception  Simon 
made  in  favor  of  Helen  from  his  opinion  and 
feeling  about  the  world  he  left — that  it  was 
not  on  the  whole  justified — could  understand 

6 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

it  in  this  way,  that  there  was  something 
in  her  young  gravity  and  impetuous  faith 
which  seemed  to  isolate  whatever  she  looked  at. 
To  be  considered  and  remembered  by  her  seem 
ed  important.  It  lifted  one  out  of  triviality. 
In  Hagar  she  was  a  pronounced,  a  separate 
person.  Hagar  itself  was  compact  of  varieties, 
but  Helen  was  intense  in  conception  and  direct 
in  action  to  surprise  Hagar.  She  ran  away 
with  Morgan  Map  to  the  Hamilton  County 
Fair,  and  came  back  in  the  gray  dawn,  white- 
lipped  with  weariness.  A  neighbor  or  two 
had  sat  up  with  Widow  Bourn  to  prevent  her 
worrying.  It  was  a  gratifying  success.  The 
widow  slept  by  the  fire.  Morgan  was  eigh 
teen  then,  but  the  Maps  were  somewhat  out  of 
the  reach  of  Hagar's  opinion.  She  smote  Mr. 
Paulus  with  a  paint-brush  across  the  face  for 
interfering  with  her  painting  designs  on  cows 
and  cats.  They  were  not  his  cows  and  cats. 
That  question  in  ethics  threw  Hagar  into  ex 
cited  division,  and  it  was  not  remembered 
whose  cows  and  cats  they  were.  She  was  sent 
to  Miss  Savage's  School  in  Wimberton;  mut 
tering  rumors  of  her  crossed  the  Cattle  Ridge. 
At  sixteen  she  was  thrown  by  one  of  the  San 
derson  horses,  a  red-eyed,  ugly  breed  of  racers ; 

7 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

and  Joe  Sanderson,  then  aged  nine,  ran  at  the 
horse  and  shot  a  barbed  arrow  into  its  hide, 
out  of  his  bitter  wrath  and  love  of  Nellie;  and 
Nellie  lay  a  twelvemonth  and  more  on  her 
back  to  cure  her  spine.  These  are  but  in 
stances  of  enterprise.  Whatever  stood  the 
challenge  or  test  of  worth  and  reality  in  her 
eyes  was  apt  to  be  a  cause  of  sudden  valor  or 
unreckoned  devotion. 

The  accident  was  in  1858,  the  year  after 
Squire  Map's  wife  died,  whose  name  was  once 
Edith  Lorn.  There  was  a  great  funeral  in 
Hagar,  and  carriages  from  down  the  Wyan- 
tenaug  Valley  as  far  as  Hamilton.  There 
was  an  explosion  then,  too,  in  the  Map  family 
regarding  property.  Gerald  and  Morgan  were 
supposed  to  have  announced  their  independence 
on  the  strength  of  their  majority  and  inherit 
ance.  The  squire  took  to  himself  a  grudge 
against  the  world  where  sons  are  unfilial, 
friends  betray,  and  love  falls  from  negation  to 
negation,  and  began  that  lonely  life  which 
lasted  twenty  years,  shut  in  and  brooding  in 
the  square  house  on  the  hill  half  a  mile  out  on 
the  Cattle  Ridge  road.  Gerald  Map  came 
no  more  to  Hagar,  but  Morgan  was  seen  at 
times.  He  rode  up  from  Hamilton  the  day 

8 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

after  Helen's  fall,  talked  with  the  doctor,  went 
up-stairs  and  kissed  her  cheek,  and  departed, 
silent  to  Widow  Bourn's  murmured  remon 
strance,  "He  shouldn't  do  that!" 

Helen  said:  "Oh,  that's  all  right,"  indif 
ferently,  and  Widow  Bourn  fell  to  extracting 
comfort  from  the  situation.  If  a  honey-bee 
extracts  anything  from  anywhere,  it  is  honey; 
she  may  not  extract  anything.  There  was  a 
comfort  in  knowing  where  Helen  was  the  day 
long;  not  that  the  widow's  comfort  had  ever 
been  seriously  long  disturbed,  but  Helen  quies 
cent  was  more  comfortable  than  Helen  active, 
in  process  of  silent  loading  or  sudden  discharge. 
One  could  consider  her  clothes  at  leisure,  not  in 
heated  endeavor  to  have  one  dress  for  Sunday 
without  a  lateral  or  perpendicular  rip.  Every 
thing  in  the  balm  of  the  widow's  temperament 
took  the  soft  flow  of  slow  waters,  as  Simon's 
plaintive  discontent  had  long  before  to  her  ears 
come  to  resemble  Ecclesiastes.  Helen  was 
more  difficult  to  adapt  herself  to,  because  Helen 
grew  and  changed.  Now,  the  growth  and 
change  seemed  for  the  time  to  have  ceased. 
She  was  no  less  mysterious;  but  a  mystery 
which  is  constant  and  presents  the  same  in 
scrutable  face,  and  not  always  another  and 

9 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

another,  is  more  comfortable.  Helen's  life, 
after  cataracts  and  restless  seeking,  seemed 
to  have  flowed  into  a  dark  pool,  and  lay  there 
reflecting  clouds,  patches  of  stars,  and  the 
edges  of  dim  forests. 

The  similitudes  of  young  maidens  and 
varied  flowers,  the  happy  possibilities  in  that 
comparison,  were  discovered  of  earliest  poets. 
Out  of  the  best  of  intentions  there  has  come 
to  us  so  far  only  the  conviction  that  Helen 
did  not  resemble  the  blue  violets  growing  be 
hind  the  church  in  Hagar.  As  for  Simon's 
epitaph,  it  outk  sts  the  story  and  is  still  to  be 
read.  One  may  lean  over  the  wall  of  the  ceme 
tery,  say,  at  twilight,  when  the  shadow  of 
Windless  Mountain  is  wide  over  Hagar,  and 
read  it  to-day,  note  its  stiff  insistence,  and 
suit  one's  self  with  reflections  on  man  and  nat 
ure  and  the  purport  of  things.  An  issue  will 
be  observed  to  lie  between  Simon's  epitaph 
and  the  solemn,  fading  mountain,  an  issue 
distinct  and  inclusive. 


Chapter  II 

Of  Thaddeus  Bourn  and  his   Purposes 

THERE  was  given  to  the  Bourns,  then,  of 
old,  natures  sloping  to  the  Northern  side, 
or  they  had  taken  that  tendency  from  expe 
rience.  Thaddeus  Bourn,  that  elder  brother 
of  Simon,  who  left  Hagar  so  long  ago  as  when 
Quincy  Adams  was  President,  and  became  a 
civil  flower  of  society  in  the  cit}^  of  Hamilton, 
was  a  spontaneous  variation  or  reaction  from 
the  type.  One  heard  that  he  had  made  a  fort 
une  airily,  and  lost  it.  He  surely  married  an 
other,  lost  part  of  that,  and  his  wife  of  a  year 
or  two,  who  died  and  surprised  him  into  re 
gretting  her  with  some  sincerity.  He  became 
an  official  of  the  Hamilton  County  Bank,  and 
floated  on  in  middle  life,  buoyant,  carrying  an 
aroma  of  old  fashions,  a  flower  in  his  button 
hole,  a  tall  hat,  a  silver-headed  cane.  His 
eyes  had  wrinkles  about  them,  his  cheeks  were 
thin,  his  foot  light.  All  these  were  evident  ele 
ments  in  the  total  of  Thaddeus,  but  the  total 

ii 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

itself  was  not  a  sum,  but  a  harmony.  To  keep 
the  seamy  side  of  life  turned  down,  and  its 
sheen  always  in  the  sun,  not  only  was  Thad- 
deus's  practice  and  theory,  but*  he  belonged  to  a 
distinct  school  in  the  practice  of  the  art,  which 
might  be  called  the  pseudo-classic. 

He  sat  by  Helen's  bed  half  a  day,  and  talked 
to  her  as  to  a  grown  lady,  and  was  gracious 
and  fluent.  He  brought  the  best  flowers  of 
his  worldliness,  and  jingled  all  his  silver  bells 
to  please  her. 

"Not  a  finer  pair  of  eyes  in  Hamilton!" 
he  said  to  the  widow.  "Positively  she  must 
not  have  a  crick  in  her  back.  On  my  word, 
impossible/' 

"We  are  taught  to  submit/'  said  the  widow, 
perhaps  placidly,  at  any  rate  patiently.  Thad- 
deus  mounted  the  stairs  with  a  wrinkled 
smile. 

"Sheep!  That  woman  is  a  sheep!  Helen, 
my  dear,  your  back  will  be  as  straight  as  my 
cane,  I  give  you  my  word/' 

Nellie's  lean  hands,  on  the  coverlet,  and  face, 
with  its  bacchante  spread  of  hair  above  her 
head  on  the  pillow,  were  losing  their  brown 
tan  in  the  passage  of  slow  weeks.  The  deli 
cate  creeping  pallor  and  helplessness  beckoned 

12 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

Thaddeus  to  something  tender,  but  he  took 
council  with  wisdom. 

"Uncle  Tad/'  she  said,  "why  do  you  about 
always  feel  good?" 

"Well,  well,  I  haven't  cracked  my  spine. 
Never  cracked  anything  but  my  heart  and 
reputation — a — both  of  them  like  old  varnish, 
on  my  word.  Very  good,  varnish  them  again. 
I  have" — Thaddeus  used  his  gold  eye-glasses 
gracefully  to  punctuate,  emphasize,  distin 
guish,  for  illustration,  for  ornament — "I  have 
the  opinion  that  to  feel  agreeable  and  to  be 
agreeable  are  two  habits  that  one  cultivates 
like  a  garden.  The  first  is  a  vegetable,  the 
second  a  flower.  You  see?  Exactly.  In  point 
of  fact  they  are  the  fruit  arid  flower  of  the  same 
plant.  A — a  figure  of  speech,  Nellie.  If  you 
kindly  wouldn't  look  at  me  like  the  Angel  of 
Judgment.  A — look  at  the  ceiling.  Thank 
you." 

Thaddeus  delicately  unfolded  his  theory  of 
the  conduct  of  life,  Nellie's  grave  eyes  now 
and  then  confusing  him  with  mute  challenge. 

To  his  experience,  then,  there  were  two  classes 
of  people — those  who  were  more  or  less  pleased 
with  the  world,  and  those  who  more  or  less 
were  not.  Both  personally  and  morally  it  was 

13 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

better  to  be  in  the  former  class.  Personally, 
for  instance,  one  lived  longer;  morally,  one, 
for  instance,  in  point  of  fact,  kept  in  better 
relations  with  Providence.  Now  this  satis 
faction  was  to  be  compassed  partly  by  a  cer 
tain  inward  insistence  on  feeling  agreeable — 
"When  I  buy  a  pair  of  glasses  of  a  seller  of 
glasses,  personally,  I  buy  a  pair  that — a — 
slightly  idealize" — partly  by  surrounding  one's 
self  by,  in  point  of  fact,  a  judicious  selection 
of  circumstances.  Circumstances  were,  in  the 
main,  people.  One  surrounded  one's  self  with — 
that  is,  one  sought  and  lived  among — agreeable 
people,  and  these  were  found  commonly  among 
such  as  had  circumstances  already  agreeable. 
Selfishness  was  a  word  to  keep  on  good  terms 
with  by  understanding  its  nature,  and  making 
one's  own  share  of  it  intelligent.  Enlightened 
selfishness  was  the  root  of  society.  Good 
society  really  consisted  of  people  who  had  the 
time  and  took  the  pains  to  be  pleasant  and 
entertaining,  in  order  to  have  pleasure  and 
entertainment  about  them.  This  was  the 
sensible  and  experienced  thing  in  the  matter 
of  the  pursuit  of  happiness. 

"  Nellie  "— Thaddeus's  voice  took  a  note  of 
gravity — "you'll  let  me  have  an  interest  in 

14 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

your  pursuit.  Some  time" — the  wrinkles  of 
his  smile  shot  out  around  his  eyes — "I'll  ex 
plain  to  you  how  it  is  a  case  of  enlightened 
selfishness.  Between  you  and  me,  I'm  grow 
ing  old,  but  ordinarily  I  deny  it." 

It  is  possible  that  Nellie  understood  very 
little  of  Thaddeus's  doctrine,  saw  no  distinct 
consequences  whatever,  and  was  only  caught 
by  little  gleaming  points  of  illustration.  The 
charm  of  Thaddeus's  talk  lay  in  its  opalescent 
effect,  and  this  had  much  to  do  with  gesture 
and  expression;  so  that  "good  society"  may 
have  been  to  her  a  phrase  of  the  haziest  quality, 
except  as  it  might  mean  a  pair  of  slightly  ideal 
ized  eye-glasses,  rimmed  with  gold,  and  pointed 
at  one  in  a  manner  to  absorb  attention;  "hap 
piness,"  a  certain  wrinkled  smile;  and  the 
"pursuit"  of  it  an  endeavor  to  smile  in  that 
way.  Thaddeus  thought  his  doctrine  likely  to 
suffer  much  translation.  He  could  not  follow 
its  vanishing  nor  guess  what  would  happen 
to  it. 

It  was  a  period  of  brooding  and  slow  change 
for  Helen.  At  such  times,  one  remembers, 
the  soul  was  a  highway  for  processional  shad- 
dows.  They  have  no  names  in  language. 
Only  here  and  there  one  finds  a  thing  said  of 

15 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

them  that  is  touched  with  recollection;  their 
voices  are  heard  at  times  in  blown  drifts  of 
music;  hints  are  given  that  it  is  not  a  solitary 
experience. 

Monthly  or  even  more  often  thereafter  Thad- 
deus  left  his  club  and  familiar  pavements 
behind  him,  and  travelled  up  the  Wyantenaug 
Valley  in  a  dull,  noisy  train,  even  through 
that  winter  when  the  cold  wind  swept  down 
from  Windless  Mountain  under  the  pines  and 
piled  drifts  more  than  commonly  along  the 
Windless  Mountain  road.  "Personally"  he 
took  no  interest  in  the  columned  avenues  of 
pines,  the  deep  white  ravine,  the  black,  tinkling 
stream,  the  groined  architecture  of  ice.  He 
liked  well  enough  the  scents  and  balm  of  the 
country  spring,  the  lilacs  and  the  hill  winds 
in  summer,  but  he  liked  better  his  pavements 
and  club.  It  argued  a  highly  enlightened 
selfishness,  a  refined  nicety  of  calculation, 
such  pains  to  be  agreeable.  If  we  charge 
him  with  calculation,  it  is  only  to  admire  the 
refinement  of  it,  and  refer  the  charge  to  his 
doctrine.  For  if  the  confession  that  he  was 
secretly  growing  old  meant  that  he  foresaw 
life  would  come  presently  to  seem  a  little  vacant, 
without  the  intimate  interest  it  once  had,  and 

16 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

his  house  on  Shannon  Street  be  visited  per 
haps  by  ghosts  that  would  not  always  take 
pains  to  be  agreeable,  it  would  seem  to  show  a 
skill  in  the  pursuit  of  happiness,  an  eye  for  a 
blind  trail,  not  unworthy  of  the  doctrine.  To 
foresee  coming  changes,  what  provision  the 
soul  would  need  in  a  year  or  two  more  when 
middle  life  was  past  and  the  strong  pull  of  the 
ebbing  tide  beginning  to  be  felt,  to  disguise 
from  it  the  consequences  of  sixty  years,  and 
so  to  persuade  it  gently,  without  force  or  ar 
gument,  to  continue  to  idealize  and  feel  agree 
able,  were  a  fine  bit  of  diplomacy.  For  it  was 
not  merely  a  matter  of  carrying  Helen  away 
to  Shannon  Street  to  start  there  a  fresh  stream 
of  interest,  but  Helen  must  take  an  interest 
in  him;  they  were  to  find  each  other  lovable, 
if  the  choicest  result  were  to  come;  and  Helen 
was  here  somewhat  difficult.  The  stream  of 
interest  was  started  for  him.  He  felt  it  strongly 
when  the  first  year  was  gone  and  Hamilton 
was  at  its  wintry  busiest.  But  it  was  dif 
ficult  to  be  seen  that  she  would  pursue  hap 
piness  with  consistency. 

It  was  the  spring  of  the  year  '60  when  she 
saw  the  green  world  once  more,  and   summer 
before  she  walked  free  of  the  garden     The 
2  17 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

lilacs  hung  heavily  and  seemed  almost  to  drip 
with  thick  perfume.  Thrush,  oriole,  and  bobo 
link  were  pursuing  happiness  and  warbling 
their  success.  Thaddeus  was  there,  and  chirp 
ed  in  rivalry. 

"But  your  mother  would  rather  have  some 
thing  to  submit  to." 

"Oh  no,  Thaddeus,"  protested  the  widow, 
mildly. 

"  You  like  the  Lord  to  do  you  an  injury. 
It  makes  a  prettj^  item  on  the  balance- 
sheet." 

"How  can  you  say  so?" 

"  My  good  sister !"  Thaddeus  raised  despair 
ing  hands.  "You  consist  entirely  of  nega 
tives.  There  is  no  positive  opinion  that  can 
be  attributed  to  you.  I  give  you  a  character 
and  you  deny  it.  You  escape  definition. 
Personally,  I  doubt  your  existence.  I  believe 
you're  a  nryth." 

Still  the  widow  murmured,  peacefully,  "Oh 
no,  Thaddeus,"  knitting  and  rocking. 

Thaddeus  watched  Nellie's  face  for  signs  of 
happiness,  and  the  widow  denied  with  safe 
ty  and  assurance.  It  was  no  trouble,  except 
to  fit  her  denials  to  the  form  of  the  attack. 
Thaddeus  saw  the  loss  of  his  rapier  thrusts 

18 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

of  fine  casuistry  sometimes  with  passing  irri 
tation. 

He  went  down  to  the  post-office  after  supper, 
to  Mr.  Paulus,  the  postmaster,  one  with  whom 
he  had  gone  forth  on  such  balmy  evenings, 
more  than  forty  years  past,  and  done  things 
from  which  their  elders  had  inferred  disastrous 
careers.  The  postmaster  was  stout  now,  with 
grizzled  hair  cut  Quakerly,  ponderously  grave, 
except  that  his  left  eyelid  drooped  and  twitched. 
It  was  the  one  place  on  his  wide  face  where  the 
old  spirit  of  demonry  hinted  of  itself,  and  spoke 
of  the  days  of  the  consulship  of  Tad  and  Pete. 
Without  doubt  the  world  was  degenerate,  and 
had  lost  its  breed  of  noble  bloods.  Alas,  Tad 
and  Pete,  once  sworn  and  faithful,  of  one  ideal 
together;  now  each  in  the  eyes  of  the  other 
was  an  exquisite  absurdity,  and  all  the  young 
were  degenerate,  except  Nellie.  "Pete,  she's 
doing  well,  poor  little  ghost,  on  my  word." 

"Shell  bust  out  pretty  soon  then.  Been 
loadin'  up  now  goin'  on  two  year." 

"I  shall  take  her  to  Hamilton.  She's  a 
racer,  boy.  Smacked  you  with  a  paint-brush! 
God  bless  her!  I  should  think  she  did.  In 
point  of  fact,  it  served  you  right.  You  roasted 
Starr  Atherton's  litter  of  pigs  yourself,  I  rec- 

19 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

ollect  distinctly,  and  turned  out  a  postmaster. 
Respectable  profession.     I've  nothing  against 


it." 


"I  didn't  mean  to." 

"Didn't  mean  to  which?  Fatheaded  thing 
to  try  to  do  anyhow.  I  told  you — I  precisely 
stated  the  probable  result.  I  said,  any  pig 
of  that  size  would  squeal  loud  enough  to  wake 
a  congregation.  And  Starr  Atherton  was  out 
in  the  yard  before  he  saw  the  fire,  with  a  picture 
in  his  mind  already  of  himself  pursuing  Peter 
Paulus,  pig-stealer." 

Mr.  Paulus  twitched  his  eyelid  and  reverted 
to  the  other  subject. 

"Hamilton!  Well — maybe  she  won't.  She 
might  remember  your  position  in  society  now. 
She  might  gunpowder  the  mayor  an'  let  it 
go  at  that.  What's  in  will  out,  that's  what 
I  say — what's  in  will  out.  Now,  as  to  paintin' 
cats—" 

"I  beg  your  pardon!  It  is  even  said  they 
were  not  your  cats." 

"As  to  smackin'  faces  with  paint-brushes — 
anybody  say  it  wasn't  my  face?" 

Thaddeus  leaned  forward  eagerly. 

"What  was  the  color?" 

"  Well  —  the    paint    was    green,    but    there 

20 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

must  've  been  some  white  on  the  brush.     It  ap 
peared  to  be  streaked." 

Thaddeus  settled  his  glasses,  rested  his  chin 
on  his  cane,  and  studied  the  postmaster 's  face. 
There  were  vast  vacant  spaces  on  it,  where,  it 
seemed,  one  could  keep  on  smacking  green 
paint  a  long  while  and  not  lose  interest. 

"What's  in  will  out,"  repeated  Mr.  Paulus, 
heavily.  "What's  in  will  out." 

Up  the  hill  as  far  as  the  church  Thaddeus 
thought  of  the  post-office  as  compared  to  the 
Wyantenaug  Club,  in  what  respects  the  post- 
office  had  good  points;  from  the  church  across 
the  sloping  green,  where  in  the  dusk  the  pale 
flowers  glimmered  against  the  grass,  he  thought 
of  Mr.  Paulus's  face  smitten  with  paint;  and  so 
of  Nellie,  a  slim,  white  ghost,  with  eyes  that 
sometimes  looked  wistfulness  after  nameless 
things,  and  sometimes  seemed  to  watch  only 
the  slow  march  of  dreams.  At  the  lilac  gate 
he  stopped.  Some  one  stood  a  moment  squarely 
in  the  little  doorway,  filling  it  with  his  shoulders, 
then  turned  half  back  and  leaned  against  the 
jamb. 

"  Morgan  Map,  by — a-mm. "  The  light  shone 
across  the  profile  in  the  door.  The  Maps 
were  men  of  shoulders  and  stature,  Morgan 

21 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

the  largest  of  the  three;  hair  and  brows  of  a 
Celtic  yellow  with  a  glint  of  red  in  them,  a 
face  of  cliffs  and  caverns,  bones  of  length 
and  massiveness.  "Picts,  Scots,  Caractacus, 
Vercingetorix,"  Thaddeus  murmured.  "My 
education  was  faulty.  It  seems  to  me  he 
should  be  painted  blue  and  carry  a  club." 

He  plucked  a  lilac  and  sniffed  it,  leaning 
on  the  gate,  looking  at  Morgan  contempla 
tively  and  at  the  placid  knitting  widow  beyond. 

"If  I  let  that  damned  brute  jockey  me,  it's 
funny." 

The  militant  church  with  its  starward  stee 
ple  and  weather-vane  telling  confidently  to  all 
men  which  way  the  night  winds  of  heaven 
blew,  the  shining  windows  and  doorways, 
the  scent  of  lilacs  and  the  glimmer  of  white 
flowers  on  the  grass,  the  rounded  billows  of 
the  hills,  Windless  Mountain  and  the  Cattle 
Ridge  dark  against  southern  and  northern 
skies,  the  Four  Roads,  the  meadows  east  where 
one  knew  the  Mill  Stream  was  crooning  to 
itself — Hagar,  by  dusk  at  least,  was  much  the 
same  as  in  the  consulship  of  Tad  and  Pete, 
now  forty  years  later  when  Tad  and  Pete  had 
come  to  consider  each  other  exquisite  absurd 
ities.  Even  after  another  forty  years,  is 

22 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

there  any  change  in  Hagar  at  dusk?  You 
cannot  see  how  the  charcoal-burners  have  cut 
along  the  Cattle  Ridge.  Tad  and  Pete  have 
gone  where  one  hopes  for  their  sakes  every 
thing  is  not  a  solemnity.  But  we  were  speaking 
of  Hagar  when  the  night  drops  low,  when  the 
hills  seem  to  draw  near  and  listen,  and  some 
thing  is  said  to  the  stars,  which  they  admit, 
about  past  and  future  being  foolish  endeavors 
of  language  to  say  "now."  There  seems  to 
be  a  background  and  foreground  everywhere. 
And  in  the  foreground  things  appear  to  be 
hourly  critical  and  important. 

Morgan  turned  into  the  room  and  shut  the 
door.  Thaddeus  dropped  the  lilac  promptly 
and  opened  the  gate. 

"I  seem  to  object  to  his  shutting  that  door/' 
He  walked  up  the  garden  path,  tapping  the 
ground  briskly  with  his  cane,  seeming  to  have 
in  mind  things  critical  and  important. 


Chapter  III 

Of   Morgan  Map   and   his   Purposes 

EARLY  frosts  in  October  turned  the  maples 
into  pillars  of  fire;  followed  a  long  Indian  sum 
mer,  hazy,  even -footed,  thoughtful  days;  as 
if  after  making  ready  this  ceremonial  purple 
and  red  and  gold,  gold  brown  of  the  meadows, 
blue  and  gold  of  aster  and  golden-rod  by  road 
sides  and  meadow  edges,  veiled  purple  of  the 
sweet  fern  in  high  pastures,  the  year  remem 
bered  that  it  was  not  a  pageantry  of  entry 
and  advance,  but  of  departure,  and  walked 
after  the  banners  in  recessional  mood.  In 
November  red  and  yellow  leaves  had  flickered 
past  the  windows  and  were  raked  into  heaps 
on  the  village  green. 

Helen  kicked  through  the  leaves,  scattering 
them  with  a  dry  rustle.  "  I'm  as  fit  as  can  be, 
Morgan/' 

"Don't  jump  the  fence." 

"  I  hadn't  thought  of  it.     It's  the  very  thing  " 

"Wait." 

24 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

She  stopped  and  looked  at  him. 

"Better  not/'  said  Morgan,  dryly.  Helen 
made  a  face,  put  one  foot  on  the  low  rail  of  the 
picket  fence,  jumped  and  plunged  through 
the  lilacs,  picked  up  her  hat  and  swung  into 
the  path.  Morgan  stood  still  outside  the  gate. 
"Then  you'll  have  to  come  out  again  and  go 
through/' 

His  yellow  eyebrows  met  over  his  eyes. 
Helen  flushed,  hesitated— "  Don't  be  an  idiot/' 
and  then  laughed.  "I'll  come  if  you  don't 
mind  my  thinking  you're  an  idiot." 

"I    don't    mind    your    saying    you    think 


so." 


She  came  outside  the  gate,  looking  inter 
ested.  Morgan  leaned  his  back  to  its  post 
and  smiled  approval  on  Windless  Mountain. 

"Why  not?" 

"Oh,  because  you  don't  think  so.  You 
think  I  want  you  to  do  what  I  tell  you.  That's 
very  true;  I  do.  Why  shouldn't  you?" 

The  question  involved  a  series  of  other  ques 
tions,  linked  and  secret.  Helen  fell  to  looking, 
too,  at  Windless  Mountain,  which  seemed  to 
be  brooding  as  well  over  its  constitutional 
phenomena,  whose  causes  were  ages  ago  and 
deep  in  the  earth,  its  relations  with  other  creat- 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

ures  such  as  winds,  clouds,  the  regular  and 
the  drifting  stars. 

She  did  do  as  Morgan  said,  whenever  he 
said  anything ;  at  least,  she  had  almost  always. 
When  one  was  Morgan  and  not  a  girl,  and 
seven  years  older,  and  able  to  dare  all  things 
and  do  them — (to  carry  a  person  on  his  shoul 
der  miles,  for  instance,  across  the  Cattle  Ridge, 
together  with  the  game-bag,  when  a  person  was 
tired,  arid  begging  not  to  be  disgraced  for  a 
baby,  and  would  not  have  shed  a  tear  for  a 
gold  crown  and  a  bushel  of  diamonds) — of 
course  it  was  right  and  necessary  that  such 
a  one  should  be  worshipped  and  obeyed.  Mor 
gan  broke  into  her  thoughts. 

"Is  it  fixed  when  you  go  to  Hamilton?" 

"After  Christmas.  Do  you  know,  I  believe 
uncle  doesn't  like  you." 

"Oh,  well,  that's  all  right.  I'll  forgive  him 
till  he  feels  better/' 

To  fear  nothing,  to  count  no  costs,  to  be 
unlimited!  The  two  years  seemed  as  long 
as  lifetimes,  since  that  summer  when  things 
happened;  and  Morgan  was  still  Morgan.  He 
had  never  cared  who  was  angry  with  him, 
or  who  liked  or  disliked  him.  Helen  had 
longed  not  to  care  and  been  bitterly  driven  to 

26 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

do  so  always.  She  struggled  to  imitate  him. 
In  the  face  of  sudden  danger,  attack  of  angry 
game  -  preserver  or  owner  of  posted  stream, 
or  any  crisis  of  the  woods  when  the  partridge 
whirred  or  the  fox  broke  into  the  open,  Mor 
gan's  face  would  not  flush  nor  his  hand  trem 
ble;  but  he  only  seemed  to  gather  his  brows 
and  centre  himself  on  the  subject,  while  little 
Nellie  wondered  and  worshipped.  So  he  stood 
for  an  ideal  of  effectiveness  and  freedom  from 
the  tyranny  of  circumstances,  which  to  her 
small  experience  and  large  deduction  seemed 
visibly  to  bend  aside  before  and  around  him, 
from  the  tyranny  of  other  people's  opinions, 
which  he  cared  so  little  about  that  they  turned 
into  harmless  murmurs  behind  him  instead  of 
planting  themselves  monumentally  in  front. 

For  at  times  this  world  appeared  to  exist 
for  opposition  only,  in  iron  battle  order,  brist 
ling  with  spears,  stolid,  reasonless,  forbidding. 
It  was  a  caste  system,  a  privileged  aristocracy 
of  one's  elders,  the  dead-line  of  an  old  regime. 
Morgan  walked  through  it  promptly.  "  People," 
he  said,  "  pretend  a  lot  more  than  they  are, 
most  of  'em.  My  dad  doesn't  so  much." 

But  freedom  seems  not  to  be  an  end  in  itself, 
only  an  opportunity  to  do  things  differently. 

27 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

It  has  its  own  regime,  its  tyranny  of  devotions, 
heroisms,  and  heroes,  military,  imperial. 

That  Morgan  proposed  a  Napoleonic  career 
for  himself — reasonabty  such,  for  he  was  no 
dreamer — that  he  proposed  to  dominate,  to 
break  through  limits  and  oppositions,  to  drive 
a  path  through  the  jam  of  men  wide  enough 
for  his  shoulder  muscles  to  work  in,  was  mere 
ly  his  own  candid  statement.  And  regarding 
Thaddeus,  his  expression  sprang  equally  from 
candor.  A  man's  dislike  for  him  was  a  poor 
reason  for  disliking  that  man.  To  carry  malice 
was  to  carry  a  load.  A  man  was  an  engine 
for  covering  ground  and  arriving  at  ends, 
and  malice  was  burned -out  slack.  Resent 
ments  of  old  hostilities  and  memories  of  old 
loves  were  slack,  likes  and  dislikes  mostly 
whims.  Mankind  was  various  and  whimsi 
cal,  and  few  were  such  as  discarded  futilities 
and  went  on,  which  was  lucky  for  the  few. 
"You're  very  sure  of  yourself,  Morgan." 
"Aren't  you  as  sure  of  me,  Nellie?  You 
used  to  be.  Well,"  he  said,  slowly,  "you  see, 
if  Thaddeus  Bourn  tried  to  take  a  fall  out  of 
me,  he'd  want  to  be  subtle,  and  then  it  would 
be  all  up  with  him,  for  I  shouldn't  understand 

it." 

28 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

"Why  should  he  want  to  take  a  fall  out  of 
you?" 

"If  he  doesn't,  why  should  I  mind  his  dis 
liking  me?" 

"Wouldn't  you  mind  being  disliked  by  any 
body,  until  they  did  something,  really?" 

"Not  much." 

"Oh!     Not  by  me?" 

"I'd  rather  be  disliked  by  the  United  States. 
Besides,  that's  foolish." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  It's  funny,  I  have  an 
opinion  of  you  that's  miles  long.  It  isn't 
exactly  an  opinion,  either." 

Morgan  smiled  again  with  approval  on 
Windless  Mountain. 

"If  you're  going  to  be  subtle  I  sha'n't  un 
derstand  it,"  meaning  possibly  it  was  the 
privilege  of  girls  to  have  half-grown  ideas 
that  they  could  not  describe.  A  man  had  busi 
ness  with  only  such  as  he  could  handle,  put 
to  the  use  of  resolve,  statement,  or  persuasion. 
If  he  was  unable  to  express  his  mind  com 
pletely,  it  was  because  there  was  rubbish  in 
his  mind.  But  between  himself  and  Windless 
Mountain,  he  did  not  object  to  Helen's  having 
an  opinion  of  him  that  was  not  exactly  an 
opinion. 

29 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

Any  one  could  have  an  understanding  with 
Windless,  that  eclectic  philosopher,  with  his 
feet  deep  in  the  earth,  fertile  loins,  jovial  belly, 
the  chest  of  a  wrestler,  and  the  gray,  scarred 
head  of  a  prophet.  On  his  flanks  were  chuck 
ling  little  rivulets,  nesting  birds,  and  all  kinds 
of  flitting  incident.  From  a  distance  you 
might  see  his  forehead  lifted  to  abstractions, 
pale -blue,  spiritual  things.  Whatever  you 
said  to  him,  he  had  an  answer  to  your  liking. 
Whatever  your  philosophy,  somewhere  about 
him  he  felt  much  the  same.  If  you  hated  an 
enemy,  there  was  a  trifle  of  ice,  a  certain  am 
bient  glacier  that  once  ground  him  badly,  of 
whom  he  had  no  loving  remembrance  and  the 
grooves  whereof  were  on  his  bones.  He  was 
no  moralist.  The  liar  and  the  thief  could 
find  companionship  there,  the  outcast  exist 
ences  more  deserted,  the  murderer  note  the 
hawk  risen  red  and  screaming  from  the  thicket, 
and  admit  a  spirit  that  bettered  his  own.  Only 
if  you  were  not  content  in  finding  a  likeness 
in  detail,  and  wished  to  look  straight  to  his 
scarred  forehead,  you  would  probably  do  well 
to  be  candid  and  take  your  time.  What  you 
got  from  him  would  be  no  special  advice,  but 
an  assurance  that  he  understood  you,  and  there 

30 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

would  be  something  in  his  manner  of  under 
standing  that  would  meet  the  case  and  be 
enough.  If  it  was  a  moral  influence,  it  lay  in 
bringing  you  to  see  the  relations  of  things  in 
size  and  quality,  and  in  making  your  own 
directions  more  evident. 

"I  like  Windless  best/'  said  Helen,  dreamily. 
"He's  the  nicest  person  there  is/7 

"It  would  be  no  joke  to  have  him  in  your 
way/' 

They  turned  into  the  garden  and  up  the  path 
between  brown,  withered  flower-beds. 

"I  jumped  the  fence,  anyway,  Morgan.  It 
would  be  idiotic  to  hurt  myself.  I  won't  do 
it  again." 

"  The  point  was,  you  didn't  mind  the  colonel." 

"I'm  on  a  furlough.  Take  me  up  Windless 
again." 

"Not  if  you're  on  a  furlough/' 


Chapter  IV 

In  which  Thaddeus   uses    the    term    "Moral    Justifi 
cation  " 

IN  the  early  days  of  Squire  Map's  seclusion 
he  had  not  yet  made  the  hermit  of  himself  that 
Hagar  was  familiar  with  later.  Men  have 
said  that  he  never  went  outside  the  village 
after  the  fall  of  '58,  at  least  never  to  Hamilton. 
The  grooves  where  his  bitterness  ran  plainly 
deepened  as  the  stream  wore  them  year  by 
year;  possibly  the  gradual  noting  how  his  with 
drawal  made  no  empty  place  among  busy  men, 
how  feigning  friends  who  had  turned  enemies 
and  rebellious  sons  went  their  way  and  pros 
pered,  helped  to  widen  and  darken  the  shadow 
of  his  misanthropy.  He  had  been  a  lawyer, 
a  politician,  and  made  his  stir  in  his  day.  In 
1860  he  was  a  gray,  grim  gentleman  in  a  long 
coat  and  tall,  black  hat,  with  a  caverned,  bony 
face  and  large  frame,  whom  it  was  not  consid 
ered  wisdom  to  address  without  good  reason,  but 
who  was  seen  often  enough  about  the  village. 

32 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

And  it  was  not  so  strange  as  to  startle  Widow 
Bourn  in  her  halcyon  calm  when  he  knocked 
at  her  door  one  afternoon,  and  entered,  doffing 
his  tall  hat. 

"I  hope  I  don't  disturb  you,  Mrs.  Bourn/' 
The  widow  signified  her  unruffled  comfort  and 
hoped  he  would  sit  down. 

"With  your  permission,  I  will  do  so." 

Followed  a  pause  while  the  widow  pursued 
her  knitting,  and  the  squire's  reddish,  bushy 
eyebrows  drooped  and  gathered,  while  he  stud 
ied  a  patch  of  sunlight  on  the  floor. 

"I  recollect  that  rny  son  Morgan  and  your 
daughter  Nellie  were  once  quite  insepara 
ble,  a  companionship  regarded  as  singular, 
considering  the  difference  in  ages,  not  com 
mon  between  a  young  man,  approximately, 
and  a  child.  It  was,  however,  I  believe,  a 
fact." 

"Morgan  was  always  fond  of  Nellie." 

The  widow  hoped  secretly  that,  whatever 
he  intended  to  say,  he  would  continue  to  put  it 
in  the  form  of  statements  with  which  it  was  no 
trouble  to  agree. 

"  I  am  told  he  has  been  here  of  late — in  fact, 
frequently." 

That  also  was  true.  The  widow  wondered 
8  33 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

why  people  were  afraid  of  Squire  Map.  He 
was  a  very  comfortable  person  to  talk  with. 

"Sickness  or  misfortune  is  not,  if  I  under 
stand  his  character,  a  thing  that  ordinarily 
interests  my  son  Morgan.  I  need  not  point 
out  to  you  that  37oung  people  of  a  certain  age 
are  apt  to  give  much  attention  to  the  subject 
of  marriage/' 

The  widow  felt  a  twinge  of  discomfort.  It 
was  but  slight.  She  objected  that  Nellie  was 
young,  hardly  more  than  a  child. 

"In  apprehension  of  the  future,  then,  Mrs. 
Bourn,  I  have  to  say  that  I  doubt  whether 
any  young  woman  will  find  the  happiness 
that  is  due  her  in  such  an  intimate  relation 
with  my  son  Morgan.  I  more  than  doubt  it." 

The  widow  dropped  her  knitting  and  stared 
helplessly. 

"That  is  perhaps  all  I  have  to  say,  Mrs. 
Bourn.  I  apprehend  something  of  the  charac 
ter  of  your  daughter  Nellie.  Her  good  looks 
are  remarkable,  her  disposition  and  intelli 
gence  even  more  interesting.  That  may  not 
be  my  only  motive  in  coming  here.  Whatever 
the  motive,  I  beg  you  to  believe  the  warning 
is  entirely  candid/' 

The  widow  felt  herself  in  the  shadow  of  a 
34 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

vague  distress,  painfully  called  upon  to  say 
something  appropriate.  She  murmured  that 
Nellie  was  going  to  live  with  her  uncle  that 
winter.  The  squire  raised  his  hedge  of  eye 
brows  suddenly. 

"In  Hamilton?" 

With  her  uncle  Thaddeus,  the  elder  brother 
of  Simon.  He  had  taken  so  much  interest 
in  Nellie. 

The  squire  mused.  Yes.  Could  Mrs.  Bourn, 
if  Mr.  Thaddeus  Bourn  again  visited  Hagar, 
contrive  to  suggest  to  him  personally  that 
his  former  friend,  Gerald  Map,  remembered  him 
with  pleasure  and  would  be  under  obligation 
to  Mr.  Bourn  if  he,  Mr.  Thaddeus  Bourn, 
would  call  upon  him,  Gerald  Map? 

The  squire  then  took  his  leave.  He  came 
upon  Morgan  himself  crossing  the  green  with 
his  gun  and  hunting-dog.  They  faced  each 
other  and  stopped.  Mr.  Paulus  from  the  post- 
office  below  the  hill  observed  them. 

" Resemblin',"  he  remarked,  "two  rams 
that's  goin'  to  butt  lightnin'  out  of  them 
selves  in  a  minute." 

"  You  still  visit  Hagar,  then?"  said  the  squire, 
his  voice  muttering  thunder. 

"Quite  often." 

35 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

The  trick  of  the  gathered  eyebrows  was 
curiously  common  to  both.  The  squire  took 
his  time. 

"You  intend  to  marry  Miss  Helen  Bourn?" 

"I've  been  figuring  on  that  for  seven  years. 
You  haven't  found  me  changing  my  mind. 
I  intend  to  do  it." 

"I  intend  to  prevent  it,  Morgan." 

"In  Nellie's  interest,  sir?" 

"I  regard  it  as  in  her  interest." 

"I  mean,  is  that  your  interest  in  it?" 

"I  shall  not  say." 

.  "I  didn't  feel  encouraged  to  think  it  was  an 
interest  in  me.     But  it's  natural  to  ask." 

"Quite  natural." 

The  squire  walked  a  few  steps,  stopped  and 
looked  back,  his  eyebrows  drooping  over  their 
melancholy  caves.  "I  take  no  interest  in 
your  success  in  any  direction.  I  shall  be 
measurably  interested  in  your  failures.  When 
ever  you  have  a  failure  to  report,  and  are  in 
clined  to  report  it  personally,  I  shall  be  glad 
to  see  you." 

"That's  an  odd  offer,  sir."  Morgan  swung 
his  gun  over  his  shoulder.  "  I  never  saw  any 
real  need  of  a  row,  and  I  don't  yet.  And  I 
don't  pretend  to  understand  the  mixture  now." 

36 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

The  squire  went  his  way  without  answering. 
Morgan  looked  after  him,  then  at  his  hunting- 
dog  sniffing  among  the  heaps  of  fallen  leaves, 
at  Windless  Mountain,  and  found  nothing  sug 
gestive.  He  walked  slowly  towards  the  Bourn 
house. 

Ordinarily  a  man  spent  his  time  better  in 
understanding  his  own  purposes  than  the 
purposes  of  other  men.  On  the  whole,  they 
were  more  easily  thrust  aside  than  under 
stood.  That  was  Morgan's  settled  conviction 
or  characteristic.  He  did  not  mean  to  make 
an  exception  in  favor  of  the  squire.  At  the 
same  time,  "  take  an  interest  in  your  failures  " 
had  an  odd  sound,  and  inviting  him  to  come 
and  report  them  was  a  bit  cool,  if  he  only  wanted 
to  gloat  over  them.  Hardly  in  "dad's"  style, 
anyway.  "  Gloating "  was  a  futile  occupa 
tion.  The  way  the  squire  had  taken  that  row 
had  been  futile  enough.  But  the  question  was 
whether  he  could  really  do  anything  to  make  a 
nuisance  of  himself.  It  not  appearing  how  he 
could,  Morgan  concluded  to  shake  off  the  sub 
ject,  quickened  his  pace,  and  whistled  to  his  dog. 

Mr.  Paulus  remarked,  despondently,  from  his 
philosophic  distance,  "I  most  thought  they'd 
do  some  buttinV' 

37 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

His  despondency  led  to  reminiscence. 
"Seems  to  me  folks  ain't  so  lively  as  when  I 
was  a  boy.  The  town's  runnin'  down." 

He  stood  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  though  there 
was  a  bleakness  in  the  wind  that  hinted  of 
December.  The  bare  branches  of  the  maples 
creaked,  and  the  dead  leaves  fled  up  the  road 
in  a  whirl  of  dust. 

It  was  late  in  December  when  Thaddeus 
came  to  Hagar  again,  a  Hagar  of  gray,  frozen 
roads,  little  patches  of  dry,  drifted  snow,  and 
nights  falling  early.  Mr.  Paulus  sat  by  a 
lamp  in  the  rear  of  the  half-lit  store,  out  of 
sorts  with  rheumatism  and  by  reason  of  human 
nature.  It  was  five  o'clock.  Thaddeus  en 
tered  with  an  air  of  happy  secrecy,  planted 
himself,  white-skinned,  wrinkled,  smiling,  before 
Mr.  Paulus 's  red-and-round-faced  gloom. 

"Pete,  I've  been  to  see  Gerald  Map.  Upon 
my  word!  Singular  interview,  which  I  shall 
not  tell  you  anything  about." 

"Ain't  no  need/'  grumbled  Mr.  Paulus. 
"  Been  agreein'  on  your  epitaphs,  an'  it's  about 
time.  Like  to  make  epitaphs  for  all  the  danged 
fools  in  town  myself,  an'  fit  the  corpses  to  the 
dates." 

38 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

Thaddeus  sat  down  carefully,  and  wiped 
his  glasses  with  snowy  handkerchief,  leaning 
forward  to  the  light;  adjusted  them,  leaned 
back,  and  rubbed  his  hands  softly. 

"Pete,  when  you've  made  up  your  mind 
about  something,  it's  a  satisfaction  to  happen 
on — a — unexpectedly — a  moral  justification  of 
it.  It  really  is." 

"  Don't  want  one.  Wouldn't  have  no  use  for 
it.  After  those  folks  'd  seen  their  epitaphs  I'd 
writ  'em,  if  they  didn't  do  what  was  decent — " 

"A— I  was  referring,"  Thaddeus  insinuated, 
"to  myself." 

"You  were!"  Mr.  Paulus  reflected,  dropped 
his  eyelid,  and  grew  a  shade  more  cheerful. 
"Moral  justification!  Well— I  caught  Cum- 
mings's  boy  stealin'  plug  tobacco  th'  other  day. 
An'  he  said  he  wanted  it  for  Halligan.  Guess 
he  did.  Likely  Halligan  give  him  three  cents 
for  a  five-cent  plug.  He  looked  the  picture  of 
virtue,  anyhow;  said  he  never  chawed:  he 
wa'n't  up  to  no  such  viciousness.  Moral  justi 
fication!  It's  a  good  thing." 

Thaddeus  smiled  absently,  pursed  his  lips, 
and  was  silent. 

"Pete,"  he  said  at  last,  "how  does  green 
paint  feel?" 

39 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

Mr.  Paulus's  gloom  faded  away,  and  his  in 
terest,  his  love  of  life,  came  gently  back. 

"Wet,"  he  said,  thoughtfully/  "Gets  stiff 
after  dryinV 

"  Ah, "  murmured  Thaddeus,  "  exactly. "        1 

A  few  days  later  Helen  and  Thaddeus  took 
their  way  down  the  Wyantenaug  Valley  to 
Hamilton,  and  left  Hagar  to  the  wintry  hills 
and  Widow  Bourn  to  her  own  manner  of  content. 


CHAPTER  V 

Introducing   Hamilton  and  Saint   Mary's   Organ 

HAMILTON  took  its  name  from  a  little  Eng 
lish  hamlet.  The  statesman  was  a  coincidence. 
It  lies  in  a  bend  of  the  Wyantenaug  River, 
which  hardly  ripples  on  the  piers  of  its  docks, 
ten  miles  from  the  sea  and  at  the  head-water 
of  the  river's  navigation.  Its  colonial  mem 
ories  gather  about  the  Common  where  the 
first  settlers  built  their  church  and  cluster 
of  shingled  houses,  and  about  the  docks  where 
ships  from  the  South  Seas  used  to  come  in  at 
flood-tide,  from  the  capes  and  the  Indian  Ocean, 
from  the  West  Indies  and  from  England,  whalers, 
too,  and  many  fishing-smacks.  The  Common 
is  half  a  mile  from  the  docks.  The  old  church 
stands  in  the  centre  of  it.  Century  elms  and 
oaks  are  scattered  about,  not  planted  in  reg 
ular  rows;  but  wherever  it  had  seemed  to  be  a 
good  place  for  a  tree,  there  the  tree  had  grown. 
On  the  south  side,  or  Main  Street,  are  the  court 
house  and  city  hall;  on  the  east  side,  or  Charles 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

Street,  are  the  Constitution  and  Wyantenaug 
clubs  and  a  church  with  twin  steeples;  on  the 
north  side,  or  James  Street,  square  brick  and 
stuccoed  residences,  with  lawns,  and  some 
times  a  silent  fountain  or  solitary  marble 
statue,  such  as  that  dancing  faun  which  ap 
pears  to  dislike  its  occupation;  on  the  west 
side,  or  Academy  Street,  there  are  stores  and  a 
hotel,  but  farther  up  Academy  Street  are  the 
law-school  buildings,  farther  still  the  academy 
itself,  founded  in  the  reign  of  William  and 
Mary,  where  from  of  old  the  Latin  declensions 
were  learned  with  the  aid  of  a  ferule  and  cu 
riously  called  "humane  letters/' 

All  the  flat,  green  meadows  that  once  stretched 
west  and  south  from  near  by  the  Common  as 
far  as  the  river  are  filled  with  brick  blocks 
and  industry  now — stores,  factories,  and  tene 
ments.  Two  railroads  run  in  subways  to  the 
station  and  bridge  at  the  bend  in  the  river. 
Jamaica,  India,  and  Academy  streets  follow 
the  old  meadow  roads,  along  which  merchants 
in  tie-wigs  used  to  drive  leisurely  to  the  docks, 
where  a  leisurely  ship  or  two  would  be  lying, 
and  there  examine  their  consignments.  North 
and  east  of  the  Common  in  the  angle  between 
Main  and  Academy  streets  lies  the  section  in 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

which  those  for  the  most  part  used  to  live  who 
maintained  mahogany  tables  and  were  able  to 
exercise  choice  as  to  where  they  would  live. 
Shannon  Street  runs  from  the  northwest 
corner  of  the  Common  diagonally  northeast 
ward,  crossing  three  irregular  openings,  mis 
called  squares,  where  muddles  of  streets  came 
together,  and  monuments  have  been  erected 
to  commemorate  two  wars  and  a  distinguished 
judge.  It  ends  in  Temple  Square,  which 
marks  its  exclusiveness,  and  at  the  same  time 
admits  the  aristocracy  of  Shannon  Street  by 
having  no  other  entrance  than  Shannon  Street. 
The  houses  about  the  square  are  much  alike, 
stuccoed,  severe,  with  small  porches,  pillars, 
and  iron  fences  close  to  the  sidewalk.  The 
centre  of  the  square  has  a  high  iron  fence  about 
it,  gates  with  scrollwork,  which  are  commonly 
shut.  j 

The  house  of  Thaddeus  faced  on  Philip's 
Road  and  Shannon  Street,  not  far  from  the 
monument  to  the  War  of  1812,  the  two  streets 
meeting  at  dull  angles  in  front.  There  was 
more  of  it  on  Philip's  Road,  but  it  was  num 
bered  with  Shannon  Street,  because  to  live  on 
Shannon  Street  was  a  better  principle.  The 

43 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

street  signs  of  Philip's  Road  at  different  times 
had  been  changed  to  "Pequot  Avenue/'  with 
a  view  to  euphony  and  a  securer  social  posi 
tion,  but  the  commissioners  were  not  persist 
ent  enough,  and  nature  was  against  them. 
The  name  hinted  it  once  to  have  been  an  Indian 
trail,  or  at  least  that  some  person  had  said  so; 
and  whether  this  person  was  truthful  and 
informed  was  forgotten,  too.  The  chronicles 
but  mentioned  the  tradition.  The  road  showed 
a  certain  furtive  vagrancy,  running  from  the 
theatre  at  the  corner  of  the  fair  grounds  bar 
barously  and  disorderly  through  two  blocks, 
otherwise  of  a  shape  without  reproach,  and 
shying  away  from  the  law  school — an  instinct 
of  untamed  nature.  It  approached  Shannon 
Street  gradually  with  sullen  suspicion,  caught 
sight  of  the  monument  of  1812,  plunged  sud 
denly  across,  ran  riot  through  a  number  of 
blocks,  and  escaped  into  the  open  country.  So 
that  Thaddeus's  house  was  numbered  on  Shan 
non  Street. 

Charles  Street  ran  by  it  on  the  west,  and  so 
past  Saint  Mary's  Church  directly  to  the  Com 
mon.  Helen  looked  first  from  the  west  window 
of  her  room  on  Charles  Street  and  saw  bare 
boughs  of  maple-trees  shining  in  the  cold  inoon- 

44 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

light,  and  across  the  way  a  long  row  of  glim 
mering  vestibules  and  curtains;  then  from 
the  south  window,  and  saw  a  house  with  a 
large,  glowing  window  beyond  a  vacant  space 
of  lawn,  over  it  the  apse  at  the  rear  of  a  church, 
with  two  small  steeples,  and  farther  on  and  up 
the  big  steeple  and  gilded  cross  glittering  in 
the  mist  of  the  moon.  A  lady  walked  past 
and  past  the  glowing  window.  The  room 
within  looked  warm,  mellow,  peaceful,  but 
she  seemed  restless.  Once  she  stopped  and 
even  seemed  to  gaze  up  at  Helen,  but  her  face 
was  in  shadow.  Helen  thought  she  was  tall 
and  had  thick  hair. 

Some  one  was  playing  the  organ  in  Saint 
Mary's,  a  sombre  mutter  and  deep  breathing 
underneath,  wild  voices  calling  and  crying 
above.  More  voices  gathered;  they  struggled, 
strained,  shrieked  reproach,  and  wailed  for 
pity,  till  one  by  one  they  were  hushed  and 
only  the  measured  breathing  went  on. 

In  the  morning  Thaddeus  said:  "You've 
done  very  well.  I've  heard  that  the  two  things 
most  worth  while  in  Hamilton  now  are  to  see 
Mrs.  Mavering  and  hear  Gard  Windham's 
playing.  Personally — "  Thaddeus  poised  his 
coffee-cup,  "  as  regards  Mrs.  Mavering,  I  believe 

45 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

that  to  be  correct.  As  regards  the  other,  it 
has  sometimes  seemed  to  me  that  it  was  not 
exactly — a — civilized;  that,  in  point  of  fact, 
it  appeared  to  be  at  times — it  might  be  said 
to  be  at  times — a  kind  of  description  of  soci 
ety  among  the  fallen  angels — an  objectionable 
siibject  for  comment  so  public,  I  should  say, 
distinctly.  It  appears,  I  might  say,  to  lack 
restraint — a — good  taste.  I  seem  to  see  a  per 
son  in  impossible  garments  dancing  on  the 
roof  of  Saint  Mary's  with  great  impatience, 
and  stating  his  distress  in  strong  language. 
Personally,  therefore,  I  wish  Gard  Windham 
would  keep  his  spectres  out  of  my  back  yard, 
and — my  dear  Helen !  I  beg  of  you,  don't  look 
at  me  in  such  a  —  a  —  vast  manner.  Mr. 
Windham  is  considered  a  remarkable  musi 


cian." 


"I  saw  him  too,  Uncle  Tad/' 

"On  my  word!     Where?" 

"  On  the  roof.  He  was  acting  that  way  you 
said." 

"Well,  bless  my  soul!" 

Thaddeus  walked  down-town  thoughtfully. 
"She'll  run  off  after  one  of  Gard  Windham's 
ghosts  the  next  thing.  No  more  than  likely. 
She  has  an  imagination  that's  as  honest  as 

46 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

the  bank  and  the  finest  pair  of  eyes,  my  word, 
in  Hamilton/' 

In  the  afternoon  Morgan  came  with  his 
trotting  stallion,  Consul,  and  drove  her  by 
Philip's  Road  to  the  fair  grounds  to  show  his 
paces  on  the  track.  The  day  was  cold,  dry, 
blue,  and  still,  but  on  the  track  the  speed  made 
a  rush  of  air  against  her  face.  The  fair 
grounds  were  empty,  the  track  with  a  patch 
of  snow  here  and  there,  the  stands  staring  from 
thousands  of  empty  seats. 

The  great  horse  lengthened  his  stride.  He 
was  all  power  and  ease.  Such  controlled 
crescendo  of  speed  seemed  to  mean  deep  re 
serves.  There  was  a  thrill  in  the  sense  of 
those  reserves. 

"Do  you  like  it,  Nellie?" 

"It's  glorious!" 

"Of  course  you  like  it.     Hold  hard/' 

"You're  the  right  stuff,  Nell,"  he  said  at 
Thaddeus's  door. 

Morgan's  commendations  of  her  had  always 
been  rare  enough  to  be  thrilling.  Her  head 
vsang  with  "Morgan,  Morgan,"  the  victorious, 
the  controlling.  The  sound  of  Consul's  hoofs, 
the  rush  of  wind  in  her  face,  the  flying  objects, 
had  been  only  expressions  of  the  beat  and 

47 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

rush  of  his  will.  The  sense  of  him  was  over 
whelming.  It  surprised  her  to  find  that  Thad- 
deus  appeared  smaller  than  ordinary,  more 
frail  and  artificial.  He  seemed  to  be  chattering 
things  without  significance.  It  was  the  con 
trast  with  Morgan's  immense  genuineness 
and  direct  speech,  and  because  to  have  one's 
mind  filled  with  Morgan  was  to  be  forced  im 
periously  to  look  at  things  in  Morgan's  way, 
which  was  an  absolute  way.  It  brought  one 
to  despise  decorations,  mannerisms,  whatever 
did  not  come  to  the  point  and  justify  itself; 
to  summon  all  vague  emotion  and  half-formed 
ideas  of  one's  own  to  pay  their  way  or  admit 
bankruptcy  and  disappear;  to  expect  other 
people  to  meet  one  with  the  same  solidity  of 
surface.  Conversation,  according  to  Morgan, 
which  consisted  of  an  exchange  of  intuitions, 
was  a  kind  of  inflated  currency;  the  bulk  of  it 
was  irredeemable;  there  might  be  a  bullion 
fact  or  two  behind,  but  to  try  to  do  business 
on  the  basis  of  it  was  futile.  A  man  might 
either  pay  good  coin  or  counterfeit  for  purposes 
of  his  own,  but  why  play  ducks  and  drakes 
with  himself?  Thaddeus  Bourn,  by  an  odd 
inconsistency,  was  a  business  man  of  some 
acumen,  who  outside  of  that  chose  to  pretend 

48 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

to  be  a  child  with  strings  of  beads,  and  had 
nothing  visible  to  gain  by  it.  A  sentimentalist 
was  the  most  irritating  of  men,  who  wasted  his 
time  pretending  to  be  more  of  a  fool  than  he  was. 

So  that  Helen  became  engaged  in  judging 
Thaddeus  severely,  silently,  under  Morgan's 
principles. 

"Helen,"  said  Thaddeus,  using  an  inter 
pretative  eye-glass,  "  permit  me  to  say  you're 
exceedingly  young,  delightfully  young.  I  am 
pleased  that  you  enjoyed  your  drive.  Our 
friend  Morgan  is  an  interesting  barbarian.  In 
course  of  time,  no  doubt,  you  will  see  the  ad 
vantages  of  civilization." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Uncle  Tad?"  she  said, 
pursuing  cash  values. 

"There  is  a  kind  of  barbarism,"  continued 
Thaddeus,  "  which  refuses  to  be  civilized,  and, 
in  point  of  fact,  eats  the  missionary.  It  finds 
the  missionary  in  that  capacity  good,  and 
goes  its  way  with — with  congratulation.  It  is 
striking;  really,  there  is  an  impressive  sim 
plicity  about  it;  but,  dear  me,  you  know  it  will 
never  do.  It's  a  little— isn't  it  a  little  obtuse? 
At  least,  my  dear— at  least,  one  might  be  al 
lowed  to  doubt  whether — it  does  not  seem  so, 
personally,  to  the  missionary/' 
*  49 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

Thaddeus  could  hardly  have  hoped  to  dis 
sipate  any  dominant  sense  of  Morgan  from 
Helen's  mind  with  such  fugitive  sayings. 
He  was  probably  testing,  considering.  "We 
are  all  egoists,  my  dear,  except  a  few  women. 
Morgan  is  the  primitive  and  aboriginal  egoist. 
He  is — a — aggressive,  carnivorous.  I  am  a 
social  egoist;  your  father,  who  wished,  with 
emphasis,  to  be  remembered,  was,  pardon  me, 
a  regretful  egoist;  your  mother  is  a  contented 
and  unaggressive  egoist.  And  so  every  one 
has,  so  to  speak,  a  class.  It  is  no  reproach; 
it  is  nature,  my  dear — law.  Why  pretend  to 
escape?  But/'  he  concluded,  with  grace  and 
precision,  "there  is  a  choice,  and  in  matters 
of  choice  I  always  take  pleasure  in  pointing 
out  to  you  the  advantages  of  civilization/' 

Morgan  still  headed  the  march  of  Helen's 
dreams.  The  same  moon,  a  little  fuller  than 
the  night  before,  laying  a  thicker  wash  of 
silver,  hung  over  the  apse  of  Saint  Mary's. 
She  looked  from  her  window  at  the  roofs  where 
the  organ  player's  spectre  had  seemed  to  be 
dancing  then,  mistity,  wildly,  to  the  storm  of 
sound  below.  The  friendly  window  was  dim, 
which  the  lady  had  walked  past  and  past, 
restless,  tall,  thick-haired. 

50 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

How  strong  and  wonderful  was  Morgan! 
What  more  could  there  be  under  the  moon 
and  stars  than  the  will  to  dare  and  the  power 
to  do?  Helen  had  no  name  for  the  spell.  Only 
of  late  had  she  thought  of  it  in  detail.  In  old 
times  the  word  "Morgan"  itself  expressed 
the  whole  subject.  It  described  the  beginning 
and  the  end  of  things. 

The  organ  began  to  breathe  somewhere  be 
hind  the  stained  windows  that  were  just  glim 
mering.  It  seemed  to  be  laying  the  founda 
tions  of  its  temple  of  sound  on  the  undermost 
bed-rock.  Now  it  was  lifting  the  walls,  and 
one  gathered  and  knew  gradually  how  vast 
was  the  weight  of  the  masonry;  how  the  power 
beneath  that  raised  it  foot  by  foot  was  vaster 
still;  how  sure  of  itself  was  the  power  beneath, 
for  certainly  it  only  used  one  hand  to  force  that 
steady  climb  of  masonry;  the  other  ran  along, 
chiselling  designs,  gargoyles,  pale  statues  in 
niches,  sweeping  a  series  of  half-circles  and 
filling  them  with  deep-sea  and  warmest  sunset 
color  till,  lo!  it  was  a  rose  window. 

Helen  breathed  fast,  pressing  her  face  to  the 
cold  pane.  Something  here,  too,  was  strong ! 

She  snatched  a  cloak,  sped  through  halls, 
down  stairs,  through  more  halls  and  a  back 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

door,  out  into  the  moonlit  yard.  There  was 
only  a  low  iron  fence  to  jump,  and  she  was 
under  the  curve  of  the  apse.  A  door  stood  half 
open  in  the  corner  where  it  joined  the  main 
building,  and  within  was  a  swing-door  which 
yielded  noiselessly.  It  was  quite  dark  there 
under  the  gallery,  but  a  few  gas-lights  flickered 
in  the  chancel  and  shone  on  lower  ranges  of 
gilded  organ-pipes,  banked  away  beyond  in  a 
kind  of  transept,  and  on  a  choir  screen  that  hid 
the  organist.  A  few  dusky  figures  could  be 
made  out  sitting  in  pews  here  and  there  in  the 
nave.  Helen  crept  into  a  seat  next  a  stone 
pillar  that  felt  rugged  and  cool,  and  was  pushed 
forward  partly  into  the  pew. 

The  building  of  the  temple  had  ceased,  its 
visionary  masonry,  carvings,  and  rose  window 
vanished  at  a  touch  withdrawn.  The  organ 
was  murmuring  down  among  the  old  founda 
tions  of  the  world,  communing  with  the  begin 
nings  of  time,  meditating  to  rise  out  of  the  deep 
with  a  new  creation.  Otherwise  the  church 
was  so  still  that  the  air  seemed  heavy  with  the 
stillness. 

A  multitude  of  fleeting,  flickering  sounds 
broke  out,  like  a  burst  of  fireworks,  the  air  full 
of  shooting-stars,  blown  bubbles,  and  tinsel. 

52 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

There  was  a  piping  and  dancing  in  the  sunlight 
on  delicate  meadow  grass,  by  pipers  and  dancers 
who  could  not  conceivably  grow  old.  Then 
a  voice  spoke  suddenly  among  them.  One 
could  not  tell  where  it  came  from  or  what  it 
said.  It  was  cold,  sombre,  indifferent.  But 
it  ceased  and  the  dancing  went  on,  more  bac 
chanal  now.  There  were  perfumes,  garlands 
on  hot  foreheads,  shrieking  and  whirring  of 
stringed  instruments,  high  laughter,  and  swing 
ing  in  circles.  The  loud,  cold  voice  spoke 
again,  and  left  no  echoes  or  after-murmurs. 
Something  more  quiet  followed,  as  if  the  mem 
ory  of  fear  could  not  be  quite  put  away,  or  re 
mained  in  the  form  of  an  altered  mood.  Peo 
ple  walked  hand-in-hand.  There  was  warm 
twilight  and  the  ripple  of  a  flowing  river. 
After  all,  life  was  sweeter  for  seriousness,  love 
best  in  the  stillness  and  twilight.  The  cold, 
insistent  voice  rose,  a  stone  pillar  of  sound, 
and  all  these  things  became  complaining  ghosts 
before  its  weightier  reality.  So  that  at  length 
and  in  the  end  it  remained  alone,  except  for 
the  mutter  in  the  pit  below,  and  there  was  no 
triumph  in  its  victory,  but  it  continued  cold, 
sombre,  indifferent,  monotonous,  heavy. 

Some  one  beyond  the  pillar  sighed   in   the 
53 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

darkness,  and  a  hand  fell  on  Helen's  hand 
which  gripped  the  edge  of  the  seat.  Helen 
started  and  whispered,  "  Oh,  that  was  hateful!" 

"I  beg  your  pardon/' 

"  He  plays  like  anything,  but — "  She  came 
out  of  her  absorption  to  know  that  she  had 
been  whispering  her  thoughts  into  the  dark 
ness,  and  that  the  darkness  had  given  forth 
an  apology.  A  shadow  the  other  side  of  the 
little  stone  pillar  seemed  to  be  leaning  forward 
now  and  looking  at  her.  A  dress  rustled. 

"  The  music  was  sad,  was  it  not?"  and  Helen 
whispered  again : 

"They  tried  all  sorts  of  ways,  and  tried  and 
tried,  but  it  never  was  any  use,  and  they  gave 
up  and  died." 

"Did  it  seem  so  clear?  He's  beginning 
again." 

It  was  a  kind  of  nocturne  or  slumber  song, 
a  rocking  movement  with  a  flute  tone  moving 
through  a  dimmer  mist  of  harmonies,  soothing 
here  and  there  a  restless  chord.  "Has  He 
not  made  the  night  for  your  slumber,  and 
darkened  the  earth  for  your  sleep,  and  lit  the 
earth  softly  with  stars,  and  moved  it  among 
them  as  a  child's  cradle  is  rocked  ?  Wake,  then, 
if  you  may  not  sleep,  but  only  to  watch  the 

54 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

moon  rising  and  hear  the  croon  of  the  sea. 
Murmur  and  motion,  motion  and  murmur;  but 
remember  wonder,  remember  beauty,  and  let  not 
anything  persuade  you  from  them.  A  moon 
and  a  sea  be  in  your  heart,  a  hush  of  an  inner 
place.  Ora  pro  nobis,  and  for  the  growth 
of  flowers  on  ancient  graves.  Requiescant 
in  pace,  souls  stately  and  dead.  If  the  truth 
is  a  dream,  then  the  dream  is  true,  and 
therefore  He  made  the  night  for  your  slumber, 
and  darkened  and  lit  the  earth  and  moved  it 
softly  among  stars,  and  gave  to  the  moon  its 
rising  and  to  the  sea  its  motion  and  murmur." 

They  went  out  by  the  swing-door  together, 
passed  from  the  shadow  of  the  apse  to  the  level 
yard,  and  stopped. 

"I  think  your  name  is  Helen  Bourn/'  said 
the  other.  "Mine  is  Rachel  Mavering.  You 
will  come  to  see  me  often.  We  are  so  near." 


Chapter  VI 

Introducing   Gard   Windham  and   the   Brotherhood 
of   Consolation 

ONE  warm,  rainy  evening  in  the  year  '44, 
and  in  the  great  city  that  is  flanked  on  either 
side  by  a  river  and  a  strait,  Father  Andrew 
plodded  along  an  avenue  of  small  shops,  whose 
windows  rested  their  chins  on  the  wet  side 
walk  and  blinked  through  steaming  panes. 
His  dingy  umbrella  dripped  in  the  rain,  and 
the  skirts  of  his  robe  flapped  against  his  white 
stockings.  He  had  in  his  mind  no  more  than 
presently  the  opening  of  the  door  in  the  brick 
wall  of  a  cloister  court,  the  sleepy  roll  of  the 
vesper  service,  refection,  complines,  a  little 
private,  companionable  prayer,  such  as  ever 
seems  to  be  heard  kindly  if  one  is  trustful, 
and  then  the  sleep  which  comes  to  tired  saint 
and  sinner  alike  with  singular  tolerance.  Alas ! 
one's  fat  legs  became  tired  enough  with  climb 
ing  stairways,  and  the  soul  sore  with  its 
strained  sympathies. 

56 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

A  lean,  wet-haired  boy,  plodding  past  him, 
glanced  up  with  large,  drowsy-lidded  eyes, 
and  slid  under  his  broad  umbrella,  making 
no  comment.  Father  Andrew  chuckled  and 
sighed.  Giving  and  taking  were  a  simple  in 
cident,  if  giving  were  merely  to  carry  an  um 
brella  for  two,  taking  merely  to  step  under  it, 
and  charity  were  not  charity  but  companionship. 

"Where  are  you  going?" 

"I  guess  I'll  go  with  you/'  after  hesitating. 

"But  where  did  you  come  from?" 

"  Lappo  V 

"And  where's  Lappo?" 

"I  don'  know.     He's  dead." 

Father  Andrew  chuckled  and  sighed  again. 
Very  likely  he  could  not  have  decided  himself, 
from  any  earthly  information,  where  Lappo 
was.  "Was  it  Lappo  the  fruit-seller?  Yes, 
yes.  And  what  is  your  name?" 

"Gard  WindhaiiL" 

"Good—  Well,  well!  A— mm—  And  Lappo 
wasn't  your  father?  Who  was?" 

"I  don'  know." 

"Anybody  know?" 

"I  guess  they  don't." 

"Well,  what— that  is,  dear  me!  You  don't 
say  so!  I  mean,  where'd  he  get  you?" 

57 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

"Got  me  to  the  Foundlings.  Lappo" — 
speaking  in  the  way  of  quiet  conversation — 
"Lappo  had  fits." 

"Yes,  yes.     Ga — " 

"Gard  Windham." 

Father  Andrew  fell  to  patting  one  fat  hand 
on  the  back  of  the  other,  which  gripped  the 
umbrella.  It  was  his  habit  to  pat  one  hand 
softly  over  the  other  whenever  he  was  giving 
himself  advice,  or  found  himself  driven  to  some 
conclusion  which  could  not  be  soothed  or  soft 
ened  by  any  more  logical  method.  "  Yes,  yes. 
Dear  me!"  A  life  probably  of  unsanctioned 
origin.  It  was  apt  to  be  the  reason  for  the 
closed  door  and  the  lost  key. 

They  came  to  the  door  in  the  brick  wall, 
and  went  from  the  street  that  murmured  sadly 
with  the  rain,  into  the  little  paved  court  that 
murmured  sadly  with  the  rain. 

Then  Father  Andrew  sat  down  before  the  Fa 
ther  Superior,  whose  black  eyes  glowed  and 
dreamed,  and  felt  himself  like  a  small  particle 
of  dust,  happy  in  its  humility. 

"It  is  as  you  say,"  said  the  Superior.  "A 
door  is  closed  behind  it.  Consecration  is  some 
times  the  more  complete." 

Father  Andrew  murmured  that  it  was,  and 

58 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

thought  of  the  refectory  and  a  salad  he  knew 
of  with  peppers  in  it.  He  was  used  to  think 
ing  of  salads  when  he  should  not  be  thinking 
of  them.  He  was  sorry  for  it,  and  knew  that 
he  had  no  claim  to  anything  but  humility. 

"The  face  promises  and  threatens/'  mused 
the  Superior.  "  How  often  is  it  that  the  highest 
that  is  spiritual  is  based  on  the  strongest  that 
is  worldly/' 

The  Superior  was  a  man  of  symbols  and 
analogies,  swarthy  of  skin  and  large  of  frame, 
one  whose  conceptions  came  red  from  their 
furnace.  Father  Andrew's  mind  was  nestled 
the  rather  in  a  certain  padded  placidity.  More 
over,  there  was  the  salad,  with  its  peppers. 
No  doubt,  if  the  Superior  saw  promises  of  a 
more  than  common  consecration,  and  threat- 
enings  of  peculiar  importance  in  this  young 
person  without  origin,  it  was  a  thing  to  be  ex 
pected  of  the  Superior's  holy  and  profound 
discernment.  The  Superior's  spiritual  enter 
prise  was  ever  extraordinary.  He  was  of  such 
as  had  from  the  beginning  fought  in  the  van 
guard  of  the  Church,  and  been  her  glory  and 
adornment.  For  himself,  Father  Andrew  dis 
cerned  little  further  than  to  feel  that  his  duty  of 
distributing  the  brotherhood's  charities  would 

59 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

be  easier  if  every  one  had  the  young  person's 
native  assurance.  He  felt  that  Providence, 
clearly  with  a  purpose,  had  bestowed  upon 
himself  such  limited  insight  wherewith  to  be 
content.  It  enabled  him  at  least  to  admire 
the  Superior  without  limit.  He  went  his  way 
to  the  salad  and  the  peppers,  and  Gard  re 
mained  in  the  house  of  the  Brotherhood  of 
Consolation. 

It  was  a  Catholic  order,  somewhat  quiet  in 
its  ways.  Not  many  of  the  brothers  were  like 
the  Superior,  whose  faith  was  a  yearning  in 
the  blood  as  fiery  as  young  love,  and  for  whom 
night-long  struggles  of  prayer  appeared  to  be 
a  normal  way  of  living.  For  the  most  part 
they  seemed  to  be  elderly  men,  keeping  the 
rule  without  any  apparent  effort,  but  rather 
as  something  it  would  be  an  effort  to  vary 
from.  Probably  they  were  happier  than  most, 
in  the  shuffle  of  fate,  manage  to  be.  It  would 
be  difficult  to  show  they  were  not.  The  mon 
astery  bell  clinked  at  small  intervals  of  the 
day  and  night,  and  slippered  feet  were  ever 
going  whispering  down  the  corridors  on  the 
heels  of  the  sliding  moment,  to  place  some 
office  of  performance  or  prayer  accurately  in  its 
60 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

little  division  of  time.  And  this  method  and 
regulation  of  hours,  so  old,  so  grown  from 
measureless  experience  and  minute  knowledge 
of  humanity,  seemed  to  be  a  kind  of  setting  or 
framework  to  keep  in  place,  till  their  times 
came,  the  souls  for  whom  atonement  was  ac 
complished;  or  for  the  others,  to  keep  the  saving 
of  their  souls  in  orderly  process  of  accomplish 
ment.  The  faces  of  all  except  the  Superior 
looked  something  alike.  They  broke  easily 
into  smiles,  but  laughter  seldom  went  beyond 
a  happy  chuckle. 

The  window  of  Gard's  little  cell  looked  over 
the  court  against  the  face  of  a  dead  wall  that 
ended  a  block  of  uniform  houses.  The  cloister 
covered  two  of  the  remaining  sides,  a  brick 
wall  ten  feet  high  the  fourth,  and  a  thick  wood 
en  door  led  through  this  into  the  street.  The 
court  was  asphalted,  except  for  a  strip  under 
the  dead  wall,  where  one  Brother  Francis 
planted  things  hopefully  every  spring,  and 
found  entertainment  all  summer  in  the  ill- 
advised  efforts  they  made  to  grow. 

It  was  Francis  who  taught  Gard  his  Latin 
accidents,  and  later  the  writings  of  those  digni 
fied  heathen,  Caesar  and  Tullius  Cicero;  later 
still  his  Greek,  in  which  language  appeared 

61 


<The    Debatable    Land" 

the  writings  of  one  Herodotus,  and  of  others 
called  "Fathers  of  the  Church/'  of  whom 
he  might  disbelieve  Herodotus  if  he  chose — an 
unnecessary  distinction;  he  believed  them  all 
fervently.  One  of  his  vivid  memories  was  the 
delivering  before  brothers  Francis  and  Andrew, 
with  violence  and  tears,  the  oration,  "  Tandem 
aliquando,  Quirites,"  with  indignation  because 
both  chuckled  without  intermission,  and  would 
not  see  the  importance  of  condemning  Catiline. 
Francis  had  general  charge  of  the  monastery 
school,  which  was  filled  and  emptied  daily 
through  a  special  door  on  the  avenue.  But 
the  scholars  seldom  went  further  than  reading 
and  writing,  sums  and  fractions,  and  the  lives 
of  those  saints  who  had  had  the  more  interest 
ing  adventures;  so  that,  under  the  Superior's 
permission,  to  lead  Gard  into  these  high  places 
of  learning  was  a  pleasure  to  which  Francis 
surrendered  himself,  he  feared,  with  sinful 
abandonment. 

Music,  Gard  studied  with  one  Brother  Johan 
nes,  who  played  the  little  organ  in  the  white 
washed  chapel,  all  white  except  by  the  altar, 
where  there  was  a  distinction  of  gilded  wood 
work,  silver  candlesticks,  and  purple  cloths, 
and  so  cold  in  winter  that  one's  fingers  were 

62 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

numb  on  the  keys.  He  was  an  old,  bowed- 
over  man,  Johannes,  with  frail,  waxen  hands, 
absent-minded,  apt  to  forget  his  rule  and  be 
late,  and  not  understand  why  the  Superior  per 
sisted  in  modifying  his  discipline.  He  feared 
the  Superior  estimated  his  sins  too  lightly,  and 
died  in  the  year  '52,  when  Gard  was  seventeen. 
Gard  had  to  play  the  organ  at  offices  after 
that,  and  to  go  daily  three  blocks  up  the  avenue 
to  the  church  of  the  Sacred  Trinity,  and  take 
his  lesson  from  Fritz  Moselle,  a  mighty  German 
from  Strassburg,  near  the  Rhine.  He  learned 
many  things  besides  harmony  and  counterpoint 
of  Fritz,  who  was  a  cosmopolitan,  and  believed 
not  in  the  faith  of  man  or  woman;  but  he  be 
lieved  that  art  was  the  one  country  of  the  soul, 
and  that  in  conduct  it  was  the  duty  of  every 
one  to  "do  as  he  verdammt  please." 

"Look  you,  kleiner !  In  de  mass — yes. 
Some  monk  he  haf  art  in  him — Gott,  yes !  He 
found  a  place  for  his  soul  to  live  in.  He  know 
diese  vorldt  was  a  circus,  und  he  vas  a  hT  boy 
und  can't  go.  He  mus'  stay  to  home.  Ach! 
he  feel  sad.  Und  by-and-by  he  compose  music 
to  a  circus  in  hefen,  vich  vas  de  mass  you 
play  yesterday.  Aber  you  mus'  play  de  Bach 
fugue  severe.  Maybe  you  make  a  good  monk, 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

but  you  haf  too  much  luxury  in  your  bones  to 
play  de  Bach  fugue,  hein?  No?  Play  den, 
p'tit  anchorite,  und  let  each  of  your  fingers  be 
von  of  de  Ten  Commandments,  or  Gott!  you 
don'  play  him  not  any."  The  organ  at  Trinity 
was  quite  another  matter  than  the  little  one 
which  wheezed  plaintively  in  the  brotherhood's 
whitewashed  chapel. 

Once  a  week  he  had  to  go  to  the  Superior 
and  be  examined,  and  probably  read  a  chapter 
of  St.  Augustine.  It  was  a  ceremony  of  indefi 
nite  length,  for  the  Superior  sometimes  fell 
into  a  monologue,  fervid  as  St.  Augustine's, 
while  walking  to  and  fro;  and  Gard  used  to 
imagine  the  room  full  of  spirits  and  misty 
angels,  listening — all  of  them — breathless,  as 
tonished,  and  a  little  frightened;  for  there 
could  not  be  any  one  who  was  not  afraid  of  the 
Superior,  unless  it  were  the  bonus  Deus,  and 
even  He  must  be  astonished.  At  length  the 
great,  swarthy  man  would  lay  his  hand  on 
Gard's  head — a  large  hand,  lean  and  strong, 
and  vibrating  with  the  throb  and  blast  of  the 
furnace  that  was  in  him. 

"  Oh,  Infinite  and  Tender,  if  it  is  needed  for 
the  saving  of  this  young  soul,  send  him  sorrow 
and  pain,  and  let  his  grief  be  deep."  And 

64 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

Card  would  come  away  tingling  like  the  bells  of 
Trinity,  which  had  a  chime  of  twenty,  and  it 
made  the  bell-tower  rock  to  play  them  hard. 
He  never  after  lost  the  impression  that  those 
interviews,  of  all  kinds  of  human  experience, 
probably  most  resembled  death  and  resurrection, 
and  things  likely  to  happen  at  the  gate  of  the 
celestial  city.  He  grew  to  something  over  a 
medium,  slim  height  at  this  time,  had  drowsy 
eyelids,  and  wakeful  gray  eyes  under  them. 
He  laughed  with  a  bass  voice,  liked  brothers 
Francis  and  Andrews,  and  Fritz  Moselle,  and 
worshipped  the  Superior,  but  preferred  to 
dodge  him.  The  preference  was  probably  a 
sin,  one  which  Brother  Francis  claimed  to 
have  prayed  for  in  himself  some  twenty  years 
without  effecting.  He  discovered  that  the 
Superior,  Francis,  and  Fritz  Moselle  had  each 
severally  a  distinct  point  of  view,  and  that 
you  could  tell  beforehand  in  what  direction 
their  interpretations  of  anything  would  point. 
He  found  that  he  liked  the  organ  in  Trinitj^ 
better  than  Cicero,  and  watching  the  throng 
of  men  and  women,  with  bright  colors  in  their 
hats,  as  he  went  to  and  from  the  brotherhood 
and  Trinity,  if  not  better,  at  least  differently, 
than  either.  And  in  the  year  '55  he  discovered 

6  65 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

that  he  was  expected  presently  to  take  the 
vows,  and  awoke  to  the  further  fact  that  the 
idea  filled  him  with  melancholy.  It  re 
sembled  to  him  a  sandy  desert,  with  not  an 
oasis  in  sight,  not  a  palm-tree  against  the 
sky. 

The  children  who  followed  the  piper  of  Hame- 
lin,  the  mariners  of  Odysseus  who  cocked  their 
ears  to  the  sirens,  and  other  harkers  to  such 
instrumental  enchantment,  have  reported  ex 
periences  that  are  much  alike.  They  heard, 
it  seems,  a  high,  thin  fluting,  ineffably  sweet, 
which  seemed  to  imply  that  just  beyond  those 
blue  hills,  or  those  white  breakers,  or  a  few 
turns  of  the  next  street,  there  lay  an  extraor 
dinary  region  overrun  with  smiling  proba 
bilities;  for  there,  whatever  one  dreamed  of 
most  was  more  than  likely  to  be  found,  whether 
it  was  sugar-plums,  or  a  girl  in  the  brake  with 
sunny  hair,  or  a  sword  and  shield,  and  a  banner 
to  follow  withal. 

But  when  Gard  told  Father  Andrew  that  he 
would  not  take  the  vows,  Father  Andrew  act 
ed  as  if  it  were  a  new  thing,  and  lifted  his 
fat  hands  helplessly. 

" Good—  A—  Dear  me!  That  is,  I  mean, 
why  not?" 

66 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

Then  he  patted  Card's  hand  with  his  soft 
palm,  and  chuckled  and  sighed. 

"But  it's  true/'  Gard  said.  "I'll  tell  you 
why." 

"The  blessed—  I  mean,  don't!  Tell  the 
Superior."  And  he  scuttled  away  in  alarm, 
murmuring,  "I  wish  that  boy  didn't  surprise 


me  so." 


It  had  not  occurred  to  Gard,  but  evidently  he 
must  tell  the  Superior  ;  and  how  could  the 
Superior  be  made  to  understand  about  the 
high  fluting,  and  that  it  said  "Follow,  follow," 
so  that  one  needs  must  go;  and  all  about  the 
sugar -plums  and  the  girl  in  the  brake,  and  the 
banner  and  sword  and  shield?  And,  if  not, 
what  was  there  to  tell  the  Superior,  more  than 
to  make  a  bare  statement  of  his  rooted  in 
gratitude,  his  incorrigibly  evil  nature,  and  his 
resolve  to  go?  Probably  there  was  not  another 
such  case  in  the  history  of  orders,  and  he 
would  be  excommunicated.  He  knew  the 
Superior  had  meant  him  to  be  peculiarly  conse 
crated,  and,  because  he  had  no  origin  back  of 
the  Foundlings'  Hospital,  had  thought  him  a 
soul  only  the  better  fitted  to  be  seized  and  sent 
heavenward  powerfully.  What  right  had  he 
to  interfere  with  the  Superior's  great  purpose? 

67 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

Nevertheless,  he  set  his  mouth  and  knocked  on 
the  familiar  door. 

The  Superior  was  pacing  the  room,  as  his 
habit  was.  It  was  a  long,  gray-walled  room, 
containing  a  few  chairs,  a  picture  of  the  Annun 
ciation,  a  writing-table  with  a  crucifix  over  it, 
a  bookcase  with,  by  Gard's  frequent  counting, 
one  hundred  and  twelve  books,  leaving  out  the 
controversial  pamphlets.  It  was  flooded  with 
light  from  three  large  windows.  The  floor 
was  uncarpeted. 

Gard  entered  on  the  subject  promptly. 

"I've  found  I  can't  take  the  vows,  father. 
I'm  afraid  you'll  never  forgive  me." 

The  Superior  stopped  short ;  a  spasm  of  pain 
crossed  his  face.  Gard  thought,  "Now  it's 
coming." 

"Do  I  seem  to  you  unforgiving?"  he  said, 
sadly.  "Do  you  know,  that  sin  of  mine  was 
pointed  out  to  me  thirty  years  ago,  when  I  was 
your  age.  I  imagined  it  was  conquered.  I'm 
afraid  I  have  not  watched  for  it  of  late 
years." 

Gard  was  dumb  with  surprise.  The  Superior 
resumed  his  pacing. 

"I  have  been  hoping  that  you  would  come 
to  me  in  this  way  of  your  own  will.  You  will 

68 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

think  it  best,  then,  to  leave  the  brother 
hood  —  at  least  for  a  time  ?  Have  you  any 
plans?" 

"I  would  play  in  some  church,  father. 
There  is  Fritz  Moselle." 

"Moselle?  Yes,  your  teacher.  A  curious 
instance.  I  remember  him.  Made  up  of  a 
thousand  fragments,  shivered  pieces  of  glass, 
from  what  have  been  faiths  and  systems  of 
philosophy,  and  have  had,  perhaps,  in  their 
time  a  certain  fragile  beauty.  He  probably 
uses  such  terms  as  'art'  and  'cosmopoli 
tanism'  in  connection  with  it.  A  curious, 
modern  type.  You  will  learn  by  observing 
such/'  There  was  a  pause.  Gard  began  to 
collect  himself. 

"When  I  said  for  a  time,"  went  on  the  Supe 
rior,  "  I  meant  that  my  hopes  and  your  issues 
are  in  His  hands,  where  they  belong.  You 
will  write  to  me  if  you  are  in  need." 

He  stood  still  a  moment. 

"There  is  one  result  of  experience  for  one 
soul  and  another  for  another.  'As  often  as  I 
have  gone  forth  among  men  I  have  returned 
home  less  a  man, '  saith  St.  Thomas  a  Kempis  ; 
but  the  spirit  of  our  time  does  not  speak  in 
this  way.  I  suppose  " — smiling — "  it  is  only  the 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

young  men  who  really  hear  what  the  spirit  of 
the  time  says." 

He  put  his  hands  on  Gard's  bowed  head,  and 
there  was  a  long  silence.  Then  Gard  stam 
mered  something,  and  presently — somehow — 
got  away  and  stood  in  the  corridor  alone.  His 
eyes  were  full  of  blinding  tears,  and  yet  there 
was  a  sense  of  wild  relief.  The  interview  was 
over,  and  he  had  never  seen  the  Superior  so 
mild,  so  politely  talkative. 

The  parting  with  the  rest  of  the  brotherhood 
was  more  of  an  ordeal.  Brothers  Andrew  and 
Francis  kissed  his  cheek  and  turned  away. 
It  seemed  to  him  they  looked  suddenly  old,  and 
gray,  and  broken. 

The  cold,  white  corridor  was  full  of  ghosts  of 
his  own  past  hours  and  days  staring  reproach 
fully.  He  passed  out  through  the  cloister 
court,  carrying  his  little  bundle  under  his  arm. 
The  asphalt  was  wet  with  the  mist.  Francis's 
flower-bed  had  only  a  few  crooked,  brown, 
uncannily-shaped  stalks,  like  dry  mummies' 
hands  thrust  through  the  mould  and  clutching 
blindly.  He  opened  the  door  in  the  brick  wall 
of  the  court.  The  hinge  was  worn  and  the  gate 
had  been  sagging  lately.  It  grated  as  he  closed 
it  behind  him. 

70 


Chapter  VII 

Introducing  Moselle  and  Havering 

IT  was  yet  early  in  the  afternoon.  There 
was  a  hint  of  the  sun  overhead,  a  semi-luminous 
space  in  the  thin  mist,  though  the  pavements 
were  still  wet.  The  two  opposite  currents  of 
flowing  humanity  on  the  avenue  mingled  and 
jostled  and  dodged,  with  haste  and  with  leisure, 
with  good-humor  and  petulance. 

The  avenue  as  far  as  Trinity,  and  Gard  in  his 
black  robe,  knew  each  other  very  well.  The 
policeman  had  nodded  to  him  kindly  for  years, 
and  of  late  had  taken  to  touching  his  helmet. 
The  avenue  did  not  appear  to  see  anything 
peculiar  about  him  now,  but  it  came  to  him  with 
a  shock,  so  that  he  knew  of  a  certainty  that 
the  relations  between  them  were  quite  changed. 
The  policeman  touched  his  helmet,  the  man  at 
the  newspaper  booth  his  hat,  but  that  was  a 
mistake.  Properly,  he  ought  to  stop  and  tell 
them  it  was  a  mistake,  that  he  had  put  off 
consecration,  declined  reverence,  and  cast  his 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

lot  with  them  and  the  avenue's  democ 
racy. 

The  sexton  of  Trinity  was  sweeping  the  steps. 
He  took  off  his  cap  when  Gard  stopped  to  ask 
him  where  Moselle  lived.  "Two  streets  up, 
river ence,"  he  said,  "an'  turn  to  your  left; 
number  sixty-si ven,  on'y  it's  rubbed  out, 
riverence.  Is  it  a  bit  o'  music  you're  carry- 
in',  sor?" 

Gard  found  where  sixty  -  seven  was  rubbed 
out  on  a  street  door,  and  under  direction  climbed 
three  narrow  flights,  to  a  narrow,  top-story  hall, 
with  a  skylight  overhead  and  several  doors, 
one  with  the  grimy  card  of  Fritz  Moselle  tacked 
upon  it.  He  knocked.  "Herein!  Come!  Veil, 
du  lieber  Himmel!  It's  de  HI'  anchorite!" 

The  room  which  Moselle  came  storming 
across  seemed  to  have  been  originally  three 
rooms,  but  the  partitions  had  been  mainly 
cut  away.  There  were  two  pianos,  and  two 
grates  for  coal  fires.  Floor  and  chairs  and 
tables  were  a  welter  of  sheet-music,  beer-bot 
tles,  steins,  books,  flower  -  pots,  cats,  pipes, 
newspapers,  and  rumpled  rugs.  Moselle  came 
through  it  like  a  loose  meteor,  bent  on  breaking 
chaos  into  smaller  fragments;  hair  brushed 
back  and  yellowish,  dingy  with  age,  eyebrows 

72 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

and  mustache  that  swelled  and  dropped  like 
cataracts,  weight  to  threaten  floors,  huge,  fat 
fist,  and  porcelain  pipe  in  mouth.  He  hugged 
Gard  to  his  mighty  belly,  muttered  and  puffed 
hoarsely,  and  pulled  him  across  the  room  to 
where  a  man  in  black  had  risen  from  his  chair, 
who  had  a  long  jaw  and  aggressive  chin,  shaven 
bluish,  a  slouched  hat  on  his  head,  a  frock-coat, 
and  was  tall,  gaunt  and  bony.  He  held  out 
his  hand. 

"I'm  glad  to  know  you,  Mr.  Windham," 
he  said,  in  a  deep,  drawling  voice,  with  a  cer 
tain  winningness  of  smile. 

"Tis  Shack  Havering.  He  knows  about 
you,  kleiner,"  cried  Moselle,  boisterous,  ex 
planatory.  f'Tis  a  friend  of  Mephisto,  der 
Faust-devil,  und  of  me.  Ha!  Sit  down.  Vat 
iss  dat?"  pointing  to  Gard's  bundle. 

Gard  dropped  his  bundle  beside  his  chair. 
At  the  brotherhood  was  orderly  calm,  thought 
ful  silence,  cool,  clear  walls,  and  whispering 
sound  of  slippered  feet.  Moselle  at  organ 
lessons  in  Trinity  had  never  seemed  so  loose 
and  free,  broad,  joyous,  unlimited.  Somehow 
Gard  felt  as  if  vacant  spaces  about  his  soul 
were  growing  warm  and  inhabited.  He  laugh 
ed,  and  knew  no  reason  for  it. 

73 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

'Tve  left  the  brotherhood.  I'm  going  to 
be-" 

"Gott!     Vat  you  going  to  be?" 

Gard  laughed  again. 

"  I  thought  you  might  know,  and  if  you  did 
you'd  be  sure  to  tell  me." 

"So!"  Moselle's  face,  when  it  dropped  vi 
vacity  and  took  on  gravity,  fell  into  rugged, 
powerful  lines.  "Got  no  money?" 

"No." 

"  Nor  clothes  of  a  human  too  much,  nor  plans, 
nor  friends  but  old  Fritz,  nor  knowledge  of  per 
versity?  Good!  All  good!  You  will  stay  mit 
old  Fritz  some  veek  or  more,  und  I  vill  get 
you  a  church-organ  to  play  somevere.  Good! 
Hein  ?  Shplendid  !  Shack ! "  —  gesticulating 
over  Gard — "look  you  at  his  head,  his  eyelid, 
his  shape  of  der  hair-line.  Vat?  It  is  super- 
sensuous  Florentine,  und  de  back  of  his  head 
is  Yankee,  und  so  hard  you  not  break  him  mit 
an  axe.  I  say  in  all  human  variety  is  law,  und 
device,  und  chain  of  causes,  und  you  are  mitout 
science  to  know  not  music  itself  haf  more  severe 
und  mathematic  system.  Dat  boy  is  at  de 
end  of  his  shtring  of  causes — at  de  end  of  his 
shtring.  Ha!" 

"End  of  his  rope  is  the  idiom,"  said  Maver- 
74 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

ing,  in  solemn  bass.  "  It  means  he's  down  on 
his  uppers.  You'd  better  attend  to  me  and 
learn  pure  English.  Your  English  is  com 
posite,  mistaken,  and  slangy,  and  you  are,  in 
body  and  mind,  an  epitome  of  gross  fatness, 
whom  no  science  of  human  variety  could 
classify." 

The  depth  and  solemnity  of  his  voice,  the 
funereal  gravity  of  his  long  face,  seemed  bur- 
lesquely  classical.  His  speech  was  flowing, 
and  composed  of  structural  sentences.  Moselle 
waved  his  pipe  joyously. 

"Continuez,  Shack!  Heet  her  up!  Ad 
vance!  Boy,  I  gif  you  a  hT  pipe  and  a  hT 
beer,  but  not  much,  um  so  you  be  not  sick. 
My  friend  Shack  is  eloquent  und  foolish. 
Und  ve  tree  vill  talk  now  till  to-morrow  is  gray/' 

The  talk  ran  on.  Already  Gard  seemed  to 
himself  not  merely  an  hour,  but  days,  weeks — 
a  period  which  the  clock  could  not  understand 
or  measure — away  from  the  brotherhood.  The 
country  of  ideas  into  which  he  had  come  was  a 
loose  republic,  where  no  man  knew  the  limits 
of  his  personality  or  his  daring.  He  might 
loosen  his  belt  and  shout,  if  he  chose.  Here 
conversation  was  erratic  and  glancing,  not 
necessarily  an  exchange  of  what  one  really 

75 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

thought;  and  yet,  however  obliquely  from  his 
meaning  one  spoke,  there  seemed  to  be  less 
misunderstanding  than  among  the  brothers, 
with  whom  the  guiding  of  the  tongue  to  simple 
truth  was  a  matter  of  searching  conscience. 
And  again,  at  times,  both  Moselle  and  Haver 
ing  would  say  things  that  seemed  to  Gard  to 
meet  the  fact  or  question  before  them  with  a 
sharper  recognition,  a  more  instant  candor. 
He  admired  and  laughed  in  pure  joy  of  the 
brave,  new  world  that  had  such  creatures  in  it, 
with  unstraightened  ideas  that  were  free  to 
dance  in  the  sunbeam  or  dig  in  the  mine,  and 
forget  whether  they  had  or  had  not  any  con 
nection  with  the  soul's  salvation.  It  was  a  kind 
of  renaissance  for  him,  a  discovery  of  human 
ism  and  the  pagan  pleasure  of  mere  living  with 
vivacity  of  body  and  mind.  Here  on  the 
threshold  of  his  new  life  were  two  to  greet  him 
who  were  witty,  kind,  ironical,  experienced, 
and  seemed  to  be  without  care  or  fear.  If, 
as  Moselle  had  implied,  there  were  something 
hard  and  critical  in  the  back  of  his  head,  some 
reserve  of  judgment,  something  not  plastic  and 
receptive,  but  resistent  and  decisive,  it  did  not 
trouble  him  now  with  criticisms  or  decisions, 
but  let  him  bask  and  admire. 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

"Dey  want  an  organist  in  Hamilton.  It  is 
Saint  Mary's,  a  church  Protestant  Episcopal, 
called  High  Church,  videlicet,  protesting  mit 
apologies,  und  cultured  to  beat  de  band,  vich 
is  an  idiom  obscure,  my  friend  Shack.  Vat 
band?" 

"Brass  band/' 

"Ach  so!     Veil,  vat  did  I  mean?" 

"  Your  German  mind  was  headed  right,  but 
went  astray  on  a  by-path  of  idiom.  Saint 
Mary's  culture  is  not  in  competition  with  a 
brass  band  in  blue  uniform,  but  aims  at  the 
highest  orchestral  and  surpliced  effects/' 

"Veil,  a  choir  committee  wrote  me,  anyhow, 
und  I  loss  de  letter.  Helas!  I  loss  everything 
— my  reputation,  my  bes'  friends!  I  put  'em 
somevere  und  forget  'em.  Vat  did  I  do  mit  my 
letter?" 

"I  suppose  it's  in  your  pocket." 

"  Gott !  So  it  is !  Veil,  dey  vant  an  organist, 
und  Saint  Mary's—" 

"Has  a  three-banked  organ,  and  Hamilton 
is  a  sleepy  place,  good  for  your  neophyte  to  sit 
down  in  and  learn  the  alphabet  of  humanity. 
I  know  Saint  Mary's." 

"  Ach !  Plazes !  So  you  do ! "  Moselle  stop 
ped  short  and  looked  at  Mavering  under  over- 

77 


"The    Debatable    Land", 

hanging,  yellowish  eyebrows.  "  Am  I  intrud 
ing — roping  in  your  domestic  circle,  Shack?" 

"I  think  likely.  It's  no  circle.  It's  an  in 
commensurable  ratio.  You  know  that." 

"  I  know  no  more  than  you  like,  Shack,"  said 
Moselle,  gently.  "  You  haf  no  objections?" 

"None  at  all." 

"Veil,"  said  Moselle,  after  a  pause,  "so  it 


is." 


"Mr.  Windham,"  said  Mavering,  flowingly, 
"nature  cast  me  for  the  part  of  the  villain. 
She  gave  me  the  countenance  of  one  reflecting 
darkneSvS,  a  voice  unfit  for  lighter  remarks 
than  'I  will  be  revenged!7 — made  me  a  lean 
and  hungry  Cassius,  and  bid  me  assassinate 
and  betray.  The  inspired  text  has  it  that 
'All  the  world's  a  stage/  It  follows  that  every 
man  is  cast  for  a  r61e,  and  if  he  tries  to  in 
troduce  anything  not  in  character  he  appears 
to  make  a  mess  of  it,  the  management  docks 
his  salary,  and  the  public  blights  his  career. 
I  once  tried  to  play  a  hero  and  a  lover,  and 
invited  the  conjunction  of  happy  stars.  It 
was  no  good.  The  notion  of  it,  as  you  see, 
is  causing  this  German  monster  to  make  a 
braying  ass  of  himself." 

"Ho!  Ho!"  Moselle  chuckled,  and  puffed. 
78 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

"  Der  kleiner  don'  know  your  stage  und  your 
Shakespeare.  He  shtare  like  a  house  afire." 

"Oh,  that's  it." 

"Vat  is  dat,  Shack,  a  house  afire?  An 
idiom  extravagant,  confusing." 

"It  means  he  stares  with  breathless  ex 
pectancy,  with  bewilderment  and  fear.  I  don't 
recommend  the  figure  to  3rour  use.  The  con 
ception  of  red  conflagration  and  fire-bells  is  a 
Shakespearean  flight,  and  you  can't  handle 
combination  figures.  You  stick  to  a  simple 
retail  line  of  business  for  cash  or  you'll  bust. 
You  can't  take  risks  and  thirty  days'  credit 
for  a  meaning.  The  English  language  has 
no  confidence  in  you.  You  aren't  sound  for 
the  market.  Mr.  Windham,  you  will  probably 
meet  in  Hamilton  a  Mrs.  Mavering,  who  lives 
close  by  Saint  Mary's,  and  who  will  say  noth 
ing  whatever  of  me.  If  I  were  you  I  would 
cultivate  her  acquaintance,  but  imitate  that 
particular  reserve." 

"Veil,"  said  Moselle,  gently,  "das  iss  good, 
but  don't  fill  de  kleiner  mit  bevilderment.  He 
don'  understand,  und  he  take  indigestion.  Go 
buy  de  grocery  und  de  beer,  Shack,  und  ve 
make  a  dinner  here,  und  to-morrow  de  kleiner 
shall  haf  human  clothes,  und  go  to  the  theatre 

79 


"The    Debatable     Land" 

und  see  friend  Shack  arrested  for  his  vicked- 
ness  in  de  fif  act." 

After  a  while  the  dusk  began  falling.  When 
Mavering  came  back  with  bundles  and  a  basket 
containing  a  hot  shoulder  of  meat  from  the 
baker's,  the  long  room  was  lit  glimmeringly  by 
a  lamp  or  two.  And  Moselle  declared  finally, 
and  referred  especially  to  the  beer  and  seasoned 
cheese,  that  he  was  in  favor  of  the  animal 
half  of  man. 

"He  develope  his  soul  too  fast.  Let  him 
vait,  let  him  vait.  For  his  shtomach  und 
feet  haf  stood  by  him,  his  friends  from  old,  so 
old,  und  maybe  his  soul  don'  do  so.  She  act 
frisky,  hein?" 

Mavering  said,  "I'm  something  of  a  con 
servative  myself.  Man  ate  before  he  prayed 
and  loved  the  way  he  ate,  but  we  live  in  a  radi 
cal  age." 

Then  Moselle  played  dream  music,  with 
fluffy,  floating  things  in  it,  on  one  of  the  pianos, 
as  though  he  never  ate  anything  heavier  than 
lettuce,  and  was,  in  the  verity  of  music,  a  fair 
maiden  who  walked  in  a  green  -  and  -  white 
garden  and  was  pure  and  slim  as  the  lilies; 
a  woodthrush  in  the  distance  sang  a  love  song 
that  was  like  a  hymn,  but  never  came  into  the 

80 


"The     Debatable    Land" 

garden,  and  finally  each  lily  became  the  spirit 
of  a  lily,  the  woodthrush  the  memory  of  a 
song,  and  garden,  maiden  and  all  went  up  a 
silver  moonbeam  to  the  moon. 

Moselle  played  on  through  the  evening,  and 
towards  twelve  Havering  rose  and  left.  Half 
an  hour  later  Moselle  swung  around  on  his 
piano-stool. 

"  Shack  gone?  Kleiner,  kleiner !  your  eyes 
are  full  mit  damp  shleep";  and  he  looked  at 
Gard  with  his  own  eyes,  grave  and  old  and 
calm.  "I  denke  you  are  more  lofable  als  lof- 
ing,  kleiner,  an'  for  an  artist  de  first  's  nod 
ding,  de  last  is  all.  '  Geliebt  und  gelebet.' 
Aber  one  must  lieben  in  order  to  leben.  'Ge 
liebt  und  gelebet.'  Ach!  I  haf  so/' 

Gard  slept  in  a  room  at  the  end  of  the  hall, 
woke  in  the  dawn,  and  lay  waiting  for  the  bell 
before  matins.  Then  he  remembered,  and 
laughed  aloud.  But  a  throng  of  memories 
rose  reproachfully.  The  chapel  organ  would 
be  played  badly  now;  Francis  would  drone 
all  day  in  the  schoolroom,  but  there  would 
be  no  one  for  him  to  talk  with  about  Cicero's 
beautiful  adjectives;  Brother  Andrew  would 
pat  himself  on  the  back  of  the  hand,  look 
wistfully  down  the  corridor,  trot  away  to 

6  8l 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

the   refectory,  and    find    the    salad   uninter 
esting. 

So  Gard  became  organist  at  Saint  Mary's 
in  Hamilton,  in  the  fall  of  '55,  and  in  time  a 
noted  young  person.  In  the  immediate  years 
that  followed,  the  old  life  came  to  seem  hardly 
more  than  a  vivid  dream,  or  a  story  told  him 
by  another  man  who  had  never  left  the  brothers, 
but  was  still  playing  for  offices  and  hurrying 
along  white  corridors.  He  had  time  on  his 
hands,  and  read  eagerly,  and  his  rooms  grew 
littered  like  Fritz  Moselle's.  He  hardly  knew 
what  he  was  himself,  except  a  kind  of  highway, 
along  which  the  thoughts  of  other  men,  and 
emotions  that  he  might  claim  his  own  since 
they  came  from  nowhere  in  particular,  travelled 
hastily.  It  was  something  additional  to  that 
sense  common  to  humanity  of  existence  as  a 
hurried  journey  from  the  unknown  to  the  un 
known,  his  ignorance  of  his  antecedents  back 
of  the  Foundlings'  Hospital.  Yet  he  seemed 
to  feel  no  curiosity  about  them.  They  had  no 
claim  upon  him,  those  antecedents,  and  he 
had  none  to  them  that  he  cared  to  put  forward. 
The  past  might  bury  its  wrecks  if  it  could. 
His  name  might  be  a  clue,  or  it  might  be  the 

82 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

effort  of  an  inventive  or  reminiscent  nurse. 
He  never  inquired  and  never  knew,  then  or 
thereafter,  but  was  content  to  have  and  possess 
it,  as  something  that  had  floated  ashore  with 
him  and  served  well  the  purposes  of  a  name. 
After  all,  the  mortal  millions  have  their  sever 
ance  from  each  other  ruled  with  not  so  great  a 
difference  in  point  of  isolation,  and  with  the 
same  "salt,  estranging  sea."  Each  is  for  him 
self  the  centre  of  things;  the  currents  of  the 
deep  swing  round  him;  he  is  alone  with  his 
main  issues. 

Gard  saw  a  place  and  repute  slowly  forming 
for  him,  and  had  almost  coine  to  see  himself 
a  citizen  of  Hamilton,  the  straight  road  of  a 
quiet  life  stretching  before  him  under  a  cool 
gray  sky.  Moselle,  whom  he  went  down  into 
the  greater  city  to  see  now  and  then,  doubted 
that  outcome. 

One  night  in  January  he  came  down  Charles 
Street  towards  the  church.  He  had  fallen  into 
the  habit  of  playing  an  hour  or  two  in  the  latter 
part  of  the  evening,  and  people  in  the  neigh 
borhood  had  accepted  the  custom.  Some  form 
ed  habits  of  their  own  to  meet  it,  and  went  to 
their  windows  regularly  about  nine  to  hark 
whether  he  played  that  night.  It  was  not  an 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

agreement,  but  the  silent  adaptation  in  close 
communities  of  habit  to  habit. 

The  snow  was  falling,  blown  by  a  keen  wind, 
and  the  great  side  window  of  Mrs.  Mavering's 
house  glowed  warmly  through  the  sharp,  slant 
ing  lines  of  the  snow.  It  occurred  to  him  that 
he  would  rather  talk  to  Mrs.  Mavering  that 
night  than  summon  only  spectral  visitations 
from  Saint  Mary's  organ.  At  that  moment 
Helen  clung  with  warm  fingers  to  Mrs.  Maver- 
ing's  hand,  saying,  "I  shall  call  you  Lady 
Rachel,  because  you're  beautiful/' 


Chapter  VIII 

Of  Mrs.  Mavering,  and  of  the  Philosophy  of  the  Indi 
vidual 

HELEN  put  her  forehead  against  the  cold 
window. 

"It's  snowing.  Do  you  think  he'll  play 
to-night?  But  he  would  if  he  knew  we  wanted 
to  hear  him,  wouldn't  he?" 

"If  he  knew  that  we  knew  he  knew  it,  he 
probably  would." 

The  fire  glowed  and  snapped,  and  reflected 
its  varying  mood  on  the  andirons  and  the  red- 
and-white  tiles  of  the  fireplace.  Mrs.  Maver 
ing,  garmented  in  black  and  dusky  red,  lay 
back  in  a  deep  chair,  and  the  firelight  played 
across  her  face  and  dress  in  a  more  subdued 
manner  than  on  the  tiles  and  andirons,  as  if  it 
felt  that  was  not  the  right  place  to  be  familiar 
and  reckless. 

"Why?" 

"Men  take  great  pains  to  be  nice  to  us  if 
they  see  their  sacrifice  is  in  the  way  to  be  ap- 

85 


"The    Debatable  Land" 

predated.  They  would  rather  have  the  sacri 
fice  appreciated  than  the  service.  Oh,  it  isn't 
like  that,  dear  eyes1 — not  nearly  so  solemn!" 
Helen  had  come  and  curled  herself  at  Mrs. 
Mavering's  feet  to  consider  this  proposition. 
"  If  you  always  look  at  me  so  you'll  frighten 
me  out  of  all  my  little  cynicisms,  and  I  think 
them  pretty/' 

Mrs.  Mavering  reminded  one  of  something 
costly,  like  a  vase  upon  which  some  master- 
workman  had  spent  himself,  careless  of  time, 
considering  only  line  and  curve,  and  how  it 
might  be  made  to  glow  from  within  and  be 
more  than  worthy  of  the  palace  of  the  king; 
and  as  if  afterwards,  when  the  palace  had  been 
sacked,  and  fallen  with  ruin  and  wailing,  and 
the  vase  had  somehow  escaped  destruction, 
it  had  come  to  stand  in  the  guarded  corner 
of  a  museum.  In  this  meaning  Thaddeus 
had  spoken  of  her  as  something  to  be  seen 
rather  than  some  one  to  know.  Thaddeus's 
social  instinct  was  quick,  and  sometimes  ac 
curate.  He  need  not  have  been  so  mistaken, 
understood  as  implying  the  general  facts  of 
a  period  in  Mrs.  Mavering's  life. 

Helen  demanded  personality  even  of  things. 
She  inveterately  accused  persons  of  being 

86 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

persons,  and  brought  them  to  her  judgment 
bar  to  account  for  themselves.  Thaddeus 
thought  Mrs.  Havering  should  be  looked  at 
for  art's  sake,  for  the  improvement  of  the  tone 
of  society;  that  an  official  sign,  so  to  speak, 
was  somewhere  at  hand,  warning  that  no  one 
was  permitted  to  touch  her  humanly. 

Helen  had  not  seen  the  sign.  They  had 
met  first  in  the  dark  and  had  been  introduced 
by  a  sigh,  and  she  had  never  been  aware  of 
the  barrier  with  which  Mrs.  Mavering  was 
observed  to  be  surrounded.  Only  Mrs.  Maver 
ing  was  given  to  riddling.  She  acknowledged 
herself  a  person  to  Helen,  stormed  by  her 
headlong  admiration,  but  she  never  accounted 
for  herself  at  the  bar,  or,  as  Helen  stated  it, 
"Whenever  you  say  something,  and  I  ask 
what  you  mean,  you  always  act  as  if  you 
didn't  like  what  you  meant,  but  you  never  say 
what  it  was."  So  far  as  our  sayings  come  out 
of  ourselves  and  ourselves  out  of  our  experience, 
if  part  of  the  experience  were  such  that  we 
wished  to  fly  from  that  part  of  ourselves  and 
could  only  flutter  the  more  about  it,  supposing 
this  to  be  Mrs.  Mavering's  case,  her  impulse 
to  dodge  Helen's  bar  of  equity  might  be  under 
stood—and  the  fact,  too,  that  she  found  herself 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

ever  provoking  an  arraignment.  Helen  had 
to  dismiss  case  after  case  for  lack  of  evidence, 
and  because  the  defendant  wanted  to  play 
something  else.  So  that  she  only  wondered 
now  what  Mrs.  Mavering  meant  by  "Men 
would  rather  have  the  sacrifice  appreciated 
than  the  service,"  and  whether  one  would 
naturally  become  difficult  by  being  ten  years 
older. 

"  I  shall  call  you  Lady  Rachel,  because  you're 
beautiful/'  she  said,  and  the  organist  of  Saint 
Mary's  stood  outside  the  while  and  thought 
he  would  rather  talk  to  Mrs.  Mavering  than 
call  spectres  from  the  peaks  of  his  gilded  organ- 
pipes  that  blown,  desolate  night. 

Of  course,  one  could  not  become  beautiful 
like  Mrs.  Mavering  —  not  in  a  hundred  years. 
One's  nose  would  not  become  straight,  one's 
hair  black  and  heapy,  nor  eyes  change  from 
gray  to  amber  and  brown;  and  in  order  to 
become  as  difficult  it  would  be  necessary  to 
be  married  and  have  one's  husband  become 
unapparent  without  becoming  dead.  Mrs.  Mav 
ering  was  an  arduous  ideal.  Helen  doubted 
that  she  would  ever  achieve  it. 

"Then  I  must  call  you  Sir  Helen,  because 
you're  such  a  valiant  knight,  and  always 

88 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

charging  something,  and  driving  a  spear  into 
the  middle  of  an  idea,  as  if  it  were  a  dragon. 
But  my  ideas  are  not  honest,  so  they  have  no 
middles,  and  it  only  makes  them  look  mussy." 

"  Then/'  said  Helen,  quickly,  "  if  I'm  a  knight 
I  choose  to  be  in  love  with  you.  You're  locked 
in  a  tower  and  I'm  after  an  ogre,  only  I  don't 
make  out  very  well  what  he's  doing.  Of  course, 
he  growls  and  rages." 

"I  dare  say  he  does." 

"Well,  then,  Saint  Denis  Montjoie!  It  is  a 
beautiful  fight." 

Gard  was  announced  and  presently  came  in. 
Mrs.  Havering  said: 

"Can  you  play  a  game?  You  haven't  met 
Miss  Bourn?  She  is  pursuing  an  ogre  around 
a  tower.  I  am  locked  in  the  tower.  She 
doesn't  care  whether  I  like  being  rescued  or 
not.  She  isn't  sure  yet  about  the  ogre,  but 
thinks  she  needs  one." 

"  I  am  a  humble  person ;  so  is  an  ogre,  isn't 
he?"  said  Gard.  "Maybe  I'd  do.  An  ogre 
ought  not  to  be  proud," 

"But  he  always  is,"  said  Helen,  eagerly. 
"He  keeps  a  tower  to  be  proud  in." 

"Where  is  my  tower,  then?" 

Helen  hesitated.     She  had  never  seen  him 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

near  before.  He  looked  a  little  singular,  not 
quite  like  other  people,  a  little  weary  and  very 
white-faced,  a  little  impenetrable.  She  remem 
bered  all  he  had  said  to  her  through  Saint 
Mary's  organ,  things  sensitive  and  intimate. 

The  process  of  putting  together  two  groups 
of  impressions  to  make  one  personality  is 
difficult,  and  one  ought  to  have  time.  But  he 
insisted  on  knowing  where  the  tower  was. 
"I  don't  know  how  to  be  an  ogre  without  it," 
so  that  she  said,  hastily,  "  You  must  have  one 
in  the  organ-loft/'  and  was  not  at  all  sure 
that  it  meant  anything,  if  it  were  not  an  entire 
mistake,  and  was  glad  when  they  sat  down 
without  calling  for  more  explanations.  She 
slid  down  to  her  old  place  by  Mrs.  Mavering 
and  half  listened  to  them,  and  half  studied  a 
problem,  to  see  what  was  honestly  true  about 
it,  or  whether  it  had  any  middle. 

When  Helen  was  little,  she  used  to  compose 
parables  and  sermons,  and  sometimes  wept  to 
think  how  beautiful  they  were,  and  declaimed 
them  to  her  mother,  who  had  only  one  com 
ment  to  make.  It  was,  "Why.  Helen!"  Such 
was  the  parable  of  the  Perfect  Cat,  who  lived  a 
life  of  absolute  sinlessness.  There  was  a  ser 
mon  on  David  and  Absalom  —  "  Oh,  Absalom, 

90 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

my  son!"  It  was  tearful  at  that  point.  But 
the  moral  was  that  Absalom  was  hung  by  his 
hair — a  sorrowful  incident.  People  should  not 
make  their  children  have  long  hair.  "And  I 
have  asked  you  three  times  to-day,  'Mother, 
please,  may  I  cut  it  off?'  and  you  just  said, 
'Why,  Helen!'  and  I'm  not  going  to  ask 
again.  I'm  going  to  put  you  in  the  closing 
prayer."  So  that  now  she  put  her  conclusion 
into  a  sermon,  to  the  effect  that  every  one  had  a 
tower  in  which  part  of  himself  or  herself  was  a 
proud  ogre,  and  another  part  was  a  valiant 
knight  who  ought  to  eventually  thrust  a  lance 
into  the  middle  of  the  ogre  to  make  him  hum 
ble  and  social,  or  else  dead,  so  that  both  to 
gether  might  become  a  perfect  character  before 
the  benediction.  Because  a  proper  sermon  was 
like  a  story,  inasmuch  as  in  the  first  part  you 
made  things  look  as  badly  as  possible  and 
talked  about  wickedness,  so  that  everybody 
might  become  interested;  and  in  the  last  part 
you  talked  about  goodness  and  made  goodness 
succeed  after  difficulty,  so  that  everybody 
might  become  calm;  and  in  the  benediction 
you  told  everybody  to  be  happy  ever  after. 

"  Do  vou  read  Emerson,"  Gard  was  saying  to 
Mrs.  Mavering — "the  Massachusetts  lecturer? 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

He  says,  '  The  Eden  of  God  is  bare  and  grand  '  ; 
but  I  don't  see  anything  more  than  a  personal 
fancy  in  that.  Anyway,  the  poets  would  be 
wrong  in  putting  music  in  such  an  Eden. 
An  organ  is  full  of  sin  and  sorrow.  The  pipes 
always  seem  to  me  to  hold  so  many  human 
emotions  compressed  and  stowed  away,  like 
the  genius  in  Solomon's  bottle.  Say  one  of 
them  is  a  pure  aspiration  and  one  of  them  a 
snarling  desire.  You  set  the  snarling  desire 
chasing  the  pure  aspiration,  and  you  have  one 
of  the  simple  formulae  for  expressing  humanity. 
It  isn't  Eden." 

"Oh,  that's  like  my  knight  and  ogre!"  cried 
Helen.  "Do  you  do  sermons  and  parables? 
But  you  have  the  wrong  one  running  away." 

Gard  looked  surprised,  and  then  laughed. 
"  It  was  all  going  on  round  and  round  a  tower, 
wasn't  it?  And  if  the  tower  were  small  you 
couldn't  tell  which  was  running  away." 

"But  they  would  know!"  said  Helen,  trium 
phantly. 

"  But  they  might  differ,  or  they  might  forget, 
on  account  of  going  so  fast.  Then  they'd 
have  to  stop  and  ask  the  lady  in  the  tower  to 
straighten  them  out." 

Helen  looked  puzzled,  felt  that  the  parable 
92 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

was  too  mixed  to  mean  anything  now,  and 
suspected  Gard  of  mixing  it  frivolously. 

"  The  lady  in  the  tower  is  too  dizzy,  you  both 
run  about  so  fast/'  said  Mrs.  Mavering.  "  But 
she  thinks  Helen  would  never  run  away." 

"There's  no  chance  for  me  to  be  proud  in 
this  tower/'  said  Gard.  and  Helen  murmured: 

"It's  all  mixed  up." 

"Music,  after  all/'  said  Gard,  breaking  a 
few  moments'  silence,  "leaves  you  unsatisfied 
at  your  strongest.  It  is  misty  emotion.  It  has 
wings,  but  no  feet.  You  seem  to  want  some 
thing  that  has  more  grip  and  bite." 

"That  is  heresy  from  you,"  said  Mrs.  Maver 
ing. 

"I've  made  a  creed  of  heresy,  you  know. 
That  Massachusetts  lecturer  preaches  the 
creed,  '  Every  man  his  own  issue,  for  conformity 
is  death.'  But  I  don't  know  whether  he  has 
said  that  conformity  to  the  forms  you  have 
made  yourself  is  as  much  death  as  conformity 
to  those  made  by  other  men.  I  call  myself  a 
musician,  and  something  keeps  asking  me, 
'  Is  that  all?'  It  seems  to  think  it  time  I  called 
myself  something  else." 

"Then  why  not  call  yourself  a  still  better 
musician?" 

93 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

"  Of  course,  one  needn't  stand  still  altogether. 
You  become  more  skilful  with  your  fingers 
and  feet,  and  learn  better  how  to  render  and 
interpret  the  emotions,  musical  ideas,  more 
or  less  eccentric  crotchets,  of  other  men,  the 
best  of  them  dead.  Their  emotions  are  not 
so  important,  are  they?  Haven't  we  eyes  of 
our  own  to  see  that  grass  is  green?  Oh  yes, 
we  compose.  Have  you  seen  my  new  book? 
It  consists  of  a  prelude,  that  is  very  bad,  and 
highly  praised  by  competent  critics  in  journals; 
an  offertory,  in  which  Charity  appears  as 
despondent  of  the  results  of  the  collection  — 
I'm  conceited  about  that  piece  —  and  a  sym 
phony  in  five  movements,  which  is  a  padded 
invalid.  Room  enough  for  improvement,  you 
see.  I  might  learn  to  symbolize  a  mood  more 
accurately.  It  wouldn't  make  the  mood  any 
less  futile.  The  point  is  really  that  it  doesn't 
get  you  out  of  a  rut,  if  you  make  the  rut  even 
a  very  good  rut  of  its  kind.  The  more  you 
dig  at  it  the  deeper  it  grows.  There  is  too 
much  that  you  never  see  and  never  know.  You 
take  the  shape  of  your  mould.  Do  you  know 
Dr.  Holmes'  'Chambered  Nautilus'?  The 
nautilus  made  a  larger  shell  for  himself  every 
time  he  changed,  but  the  poet  didn't  comment 

94 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

on  his  making  each  shell  of  the  same  shape 
as  the  last.  He  was  a  stale  conformer  after 
all,  that  nautilus/' 

"Do  you  think  he  would  have  done  better 
if  he  had  tried  to  make  a  shell  for  himself  like 
an  oyster's  or  a  crab's?" 

"  He  wouldn't  have  done  better  in  the  matter 
of  shells.  But  personally  he  would  have  gone 
up  the  scale  of  intelligence." 

"He  would  have  been  very  uncomfortable." 

"Oh,  it  wasn't  claimed  that  conformity  was 
not  comfortable.  It  was  only  said  to  be  death." 

"Didn't  the  nautilus  have  a  very  beautiful 
shell?"  Mrs.  Mavering  spoke  in  a  low  voice. 
"If  you  ask  me,  I  don't  think  human  life  is 
better  than  music.  I  think  music  is  the  better 
of  the  two."  Gard  seemed  mutely  to  under 
stand  her,  and  was  silent  a  moment  as  if  to 
let  the  shadow  pass,  then  said: 

"Music  is  a  little  like  the  nautilus  -  shell, 
isn't  it?  —  the  venturous  bark  that  flings  its 
purple  wings  in  gulfs  enchanted,  and  all  that. 
But  isn't '  all  that '  rather  a  foolish  thing  to  do 
forever?  Purple  wings  in  enchanted  gulfs — 
it's  a  narrow  experience  when  you  come  to 
think  of  it." 

Gard  rose  to  go,  but  stood  a  moment  looking 
95 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

at  the  two,  as  if  he  wanted  to  fix  the  picture  of 
them  and  carry  it  away;  of  the  woman  with 
heavy  hair,  in  a  black  -  and  -  red  dress,  who 
gave  the  impression  of  wearing  jewelry  and 
really  wore  none,  and  the  girl  in  white  with  a 
blue  band  at  her  throat,  slim  hands  that  some 
how  looked  so  strong,  and  gray  eyes  that  de 
manded  candor  and  offered  imaginations.  The 
firelight  played  over  them  as  if  it  were  trying 
to  illustrate  the  subject,  saying,  "This  is 
worth  while  to  understand." 

"Do   you    know  there's  a  war    coming?" 
said  Gard.     "Trumpets  and  drums  are  in  the 


air." 


After  that  he  went  away,  and  through  the 
blowing  storm  along  Philip's  road  to  his 
rooms,  which  looked  out  on  the  law  school 
square.  The  front  room  was  full  of  the  traces 
and  tokens  of  the  six  years  past,  indicating 
what  the  mental  life  then  had  been,  but  not 
very  clearly  what  result  had  come  out  of  it  all. 
There  were  books  in  number  and  confusion, 
as  if  he  did  not  care  for  them  in  a  bookish  way, 
but  only  as  mines,  clefts,  or  fissures  where 
metals  are  sometimes  to  be  found — and  if  found 
and  dug  out,  the  source  has  no  more  personal 
value.  There  were  some  lounging-chairs,  a 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

desk  with  a  litter  of  sheet-music   and  scored 
manuscript. 

Gard's  face  was  whiter  and  thinner  than 
of  old.  It  was  noticeably  white,  with  heavy 
eyelids,  and  the  peculiar  curve  of  hair-line 
that  Moselle  once  noticed.  One  might  fancy  a 
trace  of  the  cloister  in  it,  not  in  anything  that 
could  be  called  clerical,  but  in  something  that 
could  be  called  isolated.  If  there  is  manifesta 
tion  in  all  faces  of  the  spirit  within,  it  would 
have  seemed  to  manifest  a  certain  separateness ; 
as  if,  having  learned  in  the  cloister,  at  the  age 
when  one  takes  fundamental  impressions,  that  a 
man  is  nothing  else  noticeable  than  a  soul  alone, 
with  the  eternities  watching  and  the  one  issue 
of  its  salvation  before  it,  he  had  never  been  rid 
of  that  sense  of  things,  but  had  only  altered 
his  conception  of  the  issue,  and  so  the  terms  of 
description  and  the  method  of  pursuit.  This 
sense  of  things,  of  life  as  a  kind  of  personal 
adventure,  a  kind  of  fortune-hunting  after  an 
ideal  of  self-culture,  an  ambition  for  a  mental 
career  rather  than  one  apparent  outwardly  to 
men,  may  have  sprung  from  far  back  in  his 
nature  and  been  of  precloistral  origin,  come 
slowly  of  late  years  to  a  theory.  The  peculiar 
ity  of  his  coming,  as  one  dropped  out  of  a  darker 

97 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

cloud  than  most  men  come  from  into  the  light 
of  consciousness,  may  have  added  to  this  dim 
sense  of  isolation,  of  ad  venture,  of  destiny  experi 
menting  more  definitely  with  him,  of  eternities 
more  watchful.  Not  that  he  compared  himself  in 
that  way  with  other  men.  The  comparison,  if  it 
had  occurred  to  him,  would  not  have  seemed  inter 
esting,  or  bearing  on  the  issue.  To  each  belonged 
his  independent  adventure ;  each  was  at  the  same 
time  an  end  to  himself  and  a  means  to  other  people. 

Such  progress  and  pilgrimage  had  its  own 
perils,  excitements,  and  new  landscapes  opening 
unexpectedly. 

The  picture  that  remained  in  Gard's  mind  of 
Mrs.  Havering  and  Helen  seemed  to  him  signifi 
cant  of  something — Helen  looking  up  with  ques 
tion  and  appeal  to  the  older  woman,  the  coloring, 
the  firelight.  She  had  brave  eyes,  that  girl.  One 
ought  to  see  more  of  women.  Mrs.  Mavering 
looked  like  a  kind  of  imperial  exile.  He  sat  down 
at  the  piano  and  touched  a  key  thoughtfully. 
They  signified  something,  surely,  if  one  could  put 
it  into  form.  He  wondered  what  had  become  of 
Mavering.  Fritz  Moselle  was  growing  apoplec 
tic,  and  people  were  talking  about  war.  If 
old  orders  were  changing,  it  was  probably  time 
they  changed. 


Chapter  IX 

Of  Estates  in  Happiness 

"  IN  point  of  fact,"  said  Thaddeus,  "  I  am  pro 
posing  a  partnership,  to  be  entitled  '  The  Helen 
Banking  and  Brokerage  Company/  organized 
to  do  business  for  a  commission/' 

"I  don't  know  that  I  understand/'  said  Mrs. 
Havering,  slowly. 

"  We  make  investments  at  interest,  speculate 
in  futures,  examine  securities."  He  paused, 
seeking  precision  of  phrase.  "  It  is  in  terms  of 
happiness.  One  pursues  it  —  happiness.  One 
sees  fortunes  in  it  lost  and  fortunes  won.  I 
find  I  have  spent  my  own  capital.  I  have  to 
be  content  with  a  commission." 

But  then  it  was  not  evident  that  Mrs.  Maver- 
ing  need  be  in  the  same  case.  It  would  be 
poor  taste  to  seem  to  assume  it.  "  In  point  of 
fact,"  she  suggested  a  hoarded  wealth,  an 
unknown,  mysterious  sum  in  reserve,  rather 
than  even  poverty  in  respect  to  a  future.  But 

99 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

she  might  be  allowed  to  express  for  herself  the 
terms  of  her  profit. 

"I  think  I  understand  now/'  she  said. 

Her  veil  had  little  beads  of  moisture  on  it  from 
the  damp  March  wind  that  blew  down  Shannon 
Street  in  their  faces.  The  gutters  were  slushy 
running  streams,  the  elms  shook  their  branch 
es  restlessly,  as  if  full  of  the  sweet  pains  of 
stirring  sap  and  the  coming  birth  of  leaves. 

"Acting/'  continued  Thaddeus,  "in  behalf 
of  the  Helen  estate,  which  I  believe,  I  trust, 
will  prove  large,  but  is,  I  think,  I  fear — " 

"You  think  uncertain?" 

"Doubtless  uncertain.  There  are  elements 
of  uncertainty.  And  in  this  matter  I  must 
confess  myself  only  a  man,  a  sad  limitation, 
Mrs.  Mavering ;  somewhat  elderly,  too ;  and  so, 
one  who  feels  he  must  husband  his  slender 
resources.  I  fear  I  depend  very  much  on  that 
commission.  I  fear  the  bankruptcy  of  that 
estate  would  be  disastrous  for  me/' 

Mrs.  Mavering  drew  her  veil  closer,  and  they 
walked  on  a  few  moments  in  silence.  Then 
she  ventured : 

"Uncertain,  of  course;  but  you  spoke  of 
elements/' 

"  I  might  mention,  in  regard  to  the  nature 
100 


"The    Debatable 


of  it  at  present,  a  certain  impetuosity,  a  deter 
mination,  a  loyalty  perhaps  a  little  too  in 
flexible.  Flexibility  is,  so  to  speak,  to  have  a 
good  portion  of  one's  capital  near  by  for  emer 
gencies.  I  might  mention,  to  speak  tech 
nically,  as  a  liability,  a  certain  Morgan  Map." 

"But  that/'  said  she,  hurriedly  —  "I  mean, 
I  know  him  only  slightly,  but  Helen  said  —  " 

"You  would  wish  me  to  convince  you  that 
he  is  liability  rather  than  an  asset." 

"  Why  not  convince  her?" 

"Ah,  but  there!  Might  it  not  —  I  have 
tested,  I  fear  it  would,  I  ask  your  better  intuition 

—  might  not  the  attempt,  if  made  seriously, 
defeat  its  end  by  rousing  that  loyalty,  giving 
perhaps   direction  and  opportunity  to  that  — 
that  inflexibility?" 

"It  might." 

Thaddeus  lifted  a  neatly  gloved  hand,  and 
cane  swinging  between  the  fingers. 

"To  be  flexible,  to  adapt  oneself.  There 
are  so  many  doors,  it  is  well  not  to  be  too  ab 
solutely  one  kind  of  key.  I  have  heard  a 
phrase,  which  appears  to  be  a  recent  discovery 

—  this  phrase,  '  The  survival  of  the  fittest.  '     It 
was  explained  to  me,  who  am  not  profound,  I 
confess.     Dear  me,  no;   nor  a  reader  of  new 

101 


"•The    Debatable    Land" 

books.  But  I  understood  it  to  mean  the  sur 
vival  of  that  which  fits,  the  introduction  of 
order  by  the  elimination  of  the  disorderly,  of 
the — a — antagonistic,  and  so  the  final  result 
of  a  race  and  a  world  to  fit  each  other  like  hand 
and  glove.  A  happy  consummation/' 

"But  Helen— " 

"  Exactly.  Helen's  ancestors — my  own,  too; 
how  singular  !  They  cultivated  a  character 
istic — a  tendency  to  martyrdom.  I  believe  a 
certain  Bourn  was  put  to  death  in  the  sixteenth 
century  for  obdurate  persistence  in  a  proscribed 
opinion.  Probably  later,  in  New  England, 
some  of  them  were  by  their  neighbors  said 
to  be  '  sot. '  My  brother  was  an  obdurately 
unhappy  person.'' 

"But  this  Morgan  Map?" 

"An  aboriginal,  an  anachronism.  He  be 
longs  in  the  primeval  wilderness  with  other — 
pardon  me — brutes.  His  father  had  a  singular 
opinion  of  him — a — that  reminds  me ;  he  had  a 
very  singular  opinion,  very  singular." 

Thaddeus  mused  a  moment. 

"Mrs.  Mavering,  will  you  dine  with  us  on 
Wednesday?" 

They  came  to  the  corner  of  Charles  Street, 
and  parted  at  Mrs.  Mavering's  door. 
102 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

To  obtain  a  small  measure  of  happiness  as  a 
commission  for  managing  another  person's 
estate  in  the  same  kind  of  property!  She 
wondered  if  Thaddeus  were  not  really  a  wise 
man,  who  made  a  pretext  of  frivolity.  He  seem 
ed  to  have  definite  theories  of  things.  It  might 
be  his  rapid  and  light  manner  was  part  of  his 
wisdom  and  his  theory,  as  if  he  had  found  it 
the  part  of  wisdom  not  to  look  gravely  and 
long  at  any  phase  of  human  life.  Who  knows 
what  might  be  disclosed,  for  all  depths  are 
black  and  threatening.  One  should  touch 
surfaces  and  slip  away  before  the  depths  boil 
up.  If  Thaddeus  had  really  attained  skill  and 
success,  it  was  something  to  admire.  For 
herself,  she  seemed  to  have  failed.  She  had 
stirred  the  depths  and  had  not  found  them  on 
the  whole  pleasant. 

Thaddeus 's  house  was  four-square,  of  a  yel 
lowish  stucco,  with  a  raised  entrance  and  a  win 
dowed  cupola.  They  built  so,  and  so  decorated 
within,  when  they  endeavored  to  build  decora- 
tively,  a  half  century  or  more  ago;  they  im 
pressed  a  generation  following  with  a  hunted, 
persistent  sense  that  in  some  manner  a  marble 
mantel,  a  plaster  ornament  on  the  ceiling,  an 
ormolu  clock,  a  flowered  carpet,  and  china 
103 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

figurines  with  neat  stockings,  were  the  types 
and  accepted  symbols  of  earthly  splendor. 
Plush  upholstery  was  a  proper  thing  in  Thad- 
deus's  day,  and  Thaddeus  had  it.  He  desired 
the  presence  of  that  which  was  fit,  accepted, 
not  provocative  of  dispute. 

And  so  his  little  dinner  of  five  passed  fitly. 
He  manipulated  Gard  to  the  piano,  Helen  near 
by,  Morgan  in  position  to  observe  her,  and 
Mrs.  Mavering  in  position  to  observe  all.  He 
drew  his  chair  near  Mrs.  Mavering  and  smiled 
a  wrinkled  smile  of  content.  He  felt  creative 
with  respect  to  the  situation,  a  strategist  who 
had  securely  arranged  how  the  enemy  should 
act. 

"He  will  growl/'  he  said  to  Mrs.  Mavering, 
softly;  "the  bristles  will  rise  on  his  spine. 
My  dear  Mrs.  Mavering,  a  primary  egotist  is 
an  impossible  person  out  of  the  jungle." 

Mrs.  Mavering  thought  she  could  see  why 
Morgan  suggested  to  Thaddeus  such  terms  as 
"primitive/'  "aboriginal/'  There  was  some 
thing  rugged  and  rough-hewn  evident  in  the 
first  place,  a  massiveness  of  antediluvian  bone, 
such  as  they  dig  from  the  clay  banks  of 
rivers.  "  We  are  all  egotists/'  was  Thaddeus's 
theory,  "but  the  primary  won't  do."  He  is 

104 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

savage  and  solitary,  too  direct,  too  elemental. 
He  jumps  to  his  aim.  He  does  not  care,  so 
he  gets  it,  what  happens  in  between.  He  does 
not  care  for  minor  points.  But  civilization  is  a 
system  of  minor  points.  He  has  no  sympathy, 
cannot  move  from  his  footing  an  inch  to  take 
another  point  of  view.  Doubtless  he  will  lie 
and  betray,  for  they  are  minor  points  of  method, 
and  faith  and  truth  are  social  products.  At 
least,  he  will  not  notice  what  he  may  happen 
incidentally  to  step  on,  or  what  becomes  of  an 
opposition  after  it  is  sufficiently  smashed. 
"  Why,"  he  asked,  primitively,  "  why  should  I?" 

But  Mrs.  Mavering  thought  all  this  seemed 
an  airy  structure,  built  on  a  theory  which 
was  very  likely  a  prejudice. 

Gard  was  playing  something  martial,  with 
the  shrilling  of  fifes,  the  mutter  of  drums  in  it, 
and  the  measured  tramp  of  feet.  He  was 
looking  at  Helen  to  see  if  she  knew  what  he 
meant,  because  one  liked  to  look  at  her,  no 
doubt;  it  seemed  to  justify  itself;  but  more 
particularly  because  he  had  fancied  of  late  that 
her  face  was  a  kind  of  magic  mirror,  such  as 
enchanters  used  to  raise  upon  by  incantation 
their  pictured  prophecies,  and  that  he  was  be 
come  able  to  summon  to  it  the  shadows  and 
105 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

counterparts  of  his  moods,  and  watch  the 
brightening  and  darkening  of  himself  in  re 
flection. 

When  he  would  come  from  the  organ-loft, 
find  her  with  Mrs.  Havering  in  the  dark  under 
the  gallery  by  the  stone  pillar,  and  the  three 
go  out  across  the  yard  to  Mrs.  Mavering's 
house,  he  always  found  that  Helen's  interpre 
tations,  however  wide  they  might  be  from 
his  own  in  point  of  verbal  symbols  and  form  of 
allegory,  followed  the  mood  with  accurate  detail. 
Only  the  mirror  tended  to  add  moral  judgments, 
or  to  substitute  the  terms,  right  and  wrong, 
for  beautiful  and  ugly,  for  harmony  and  dis 
cord,  and  in  that  respect  appeared  to  be  inac 
curate.  Still,  it  enabled  him  to  realize  himself 
with  curious  vividness. 

Helen's  face  was  flushed.  Presently  Gard 
became  absorbed  and  looked  at  it  no  longer. 
He  was  trying  to  get  not  merely  the  sound  of 
the  marching,  the  ripple  of  the  flags,  and  the 
elation  of  the  crowds,  but  something  about 
devotion  and  the  spirit  of  the  nation  shining 
like  the  sun  on  the  faces  of  its  soldiers.  Mrs. 
Mavering,  too,  turned  from  Helen,  and  noticed 
how  thickly  Morgan's  yellow  eyebrows  were 
knit  above  his  eyes,  which  seemed  to  have  a 

1 06 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

kind  of  green  glare  in  them.  They  were  fixed 
on  Helen.  A  sudden  memory  shot  through 
Mrs.  Mavering's  mind  like  a  sharp  pain — she 
shivered.  Thaddeus  noted  it. 

"Exactly/'  he  murmured  to  her;  " quite  so." 
Gard  found  his  theme  and  began  weaving 
it  in  among  the  drums  and  fifes,  increasing  it 
until  drums,  fifes,  and  flags  seemed  only  like 
the  surface  ripple  of  a  deep  stream,  so  grave 
it  was,  so  large  and  resolute,  so  brimmed  with 
its  purpose.  Helen  saw  the  success  and  bent 
forward.  Morgan  made  a  slight  choking  noise 
in  his  throat. 

"  Exactly/'  murmured  Thaddeus ;  "  quite  so/' 
Gard  finished  abruptly  and  turned  to  Helen. 
"I  don't  suppose  it's  half  true."     He  appeared 
to  be  continuing  the  subject,  secure  of  her  un 
derstanding  it  up  to  that  point. 
"Oh,  why  not?" 

"It  doesn't  read  like  it  in  the  newspapers," 
he  said,  and  rose  presently  to  go.  Thaddeus, 
too,  must  run  down  to  his  club;  would  Mrs. 
Mavering  forgive  him  and  stay  with  Helen 
till  he  came  back?  Morgan  took  his  leave 
with  conventional  phrases.  And  the  three 
having  each  taken  himself  and  his  egoism 
away,  Helen  and  Mrs.  Mavering  were  left  with 
107 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

Thaddeus's  trim  sea-coal  fire,  marble  mantle, 
china  figurines  of  the  neat  ankles,  gilt  chan 
deliers,  and  flowered  carpet. 

Helen  took  her  favorite  place  at  Mrs.  Maver- 
ing's  feet,  and  said,  "  Uncle  Tad's  fires  always 
have  company  manners/' 

As  for  Morgan,  Mrs.  Mavering  thought,  he 
did  not  like  to  see  that  Helen  could  be  moved 
by  powers  that  he  could  not  himself  attain; 
perhaps  neither  knew  nor  cared  what  those 
powers  were,  only  knew  that  he  could  not  attain 
them.  But  Thaddeus's  airy  structure,  his 
theory  of  the  primitive,  did  not  follow  neces 
sarily.  Yet  she  felt  that  a  certain  atmosphere 
of  animosity  surrounded  Morgan ;  he  was  either 
aggressively  or  indifferently  hostile;  or  else  it 
was  because  one  felt  his  intention  to  dominate, 
and  indifference  whether  the  dominance  were 
admitted  with  peace  or  in  process  of  war. 

"Don't  you  want  to  confess,  Helen?" 

"I'm  always  confessing,  Lady  Rachel/' 

"But  about  Morgan  Map?" 

"Oh,  why,  Morgan  is — just  Morgan,  don't 
you  see?" 

"That  sounds  like  a  whole  dictionary,  but 
the  words  don't  seem  to  be  arranged." 

"It's  arranged  by  the  alphabet/'  Helen 
108 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

laughed.     "It   begins   with   A,    when   I   was 

born." 

"I  was  wondering  if  it  went  through  to  Z." 
"Oh!     But,   Lady  Rachel,   I  don't  think  I 

know  what  you  mean." 

"Has  he  asked  you  to  marry  him?" 

"Not  that,  of  course  not.     But  he  said  he 

was  going  to  marry  me." 
"When?    How  long  ago?" 
"Oh,  I  don't  remember." 
"But  what  did  you  think  about  it?" 
"Well,  you  see,  Lady  Rachel,  I  suppose  I 

thought  it  was  too  good  of  him  to  believe,  and 

I  suppose  I  wondered  if  he  wouldn't  forget 

about  it  by-and-by.     And  do  you  know,   he 

didn't— that  is,  I  don't  think  so." 

"But,  you  funny  child,  you  don't  tell  me  at 

all.     Did  you  promise  to  marry  him?" 

"Promise!     He  never  asked  me  to  do  that." 

"Do  you  love  him,  dear?" 

"Never  asked  me  to  do  that,  either." 

"But,  Helen,  you  dodge  like  a  wild  thing. 

If  you  don't  love  him  and  he  expects  you  to 

marry  him,  you  must  tell  him  you  won't." 
"Why?"  Helen  rumpled  her  hair  with  swift 

hand.     "There'd   be  a   frightful   fight.     You 

see,    Lady    Rachel " — plaintively — "  whenever 

109 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

I  fight  with  Morgan  I  get  so — so  smashed. 
Don't  you  know,  it  makes  your  bones  sore, 
and  gives  you  a  headache.  Besides,  Morgan 
always  does  what  he  means  to  do,  and  he 
knows  all  sorts  of  things,  and  if  he  means  to 
marry  me  I  suppose  he  will,  and  I  suppose  he 
knows — well,  whether  I  love  him  or  not.  '  My 
word!'  says  Uncle  Tad,  '1  don't'" 

"  Don't  ~what?" 

"Don't  know,  Lady  Rachel.  Suppose  I 
said  'Morgan  Map,  I  don't  love  you,  there!' 
then  he'd  say,  'You  do,  too,'  or  else,  'That's 
my  lookout,'  or  something,  and  what  would  I 
do  then?  Oh,  yes,  I'd  say,  '  Well,  then,  I  won't 
marry  you/  and  he'd  say,  'Much  you  know 
about  it,'  or  if  he  was  cross  there'd  be  a  fight, 
and  I  never  get  anything  out  of  that.  Isn't  it 
funny,  Uncle  Tad  doesn't  like  Morgan  at  all." 

"I  don't  think,"  said  Mrs.  Mavering,  slowly, 
"  that  I  do,  either,  but  it  looks  as  if  I  ought  not 
to  say  so.  Do  you  mind?" 

"Of  course  not.  Morgan  doesn't  care  who 
dislikes  him,  except  me;  and  if  I  did,  don't 
you  see,  it  would  be  only  one  of  the  words  in 
the  dictionary." 

"I  think  I  begin  to  see.     But  I'm  still  won 
dering  if  there  isn't  one  word  left  out." 
no 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

"  Why —  But  I  don't  know  what  you  mean. 
What  makes  you  so  solemn,  Lady  Rachel? 
You  bother  and  bother  about  Morgan,  and 
he's  not  so  worth  while,  not  so — around  in 
the  dark  as  Gard  Windham,  who  says  things 
out  of  the  middle  of  himself  without  talking 
at  all,  and  you  understand  him,  you  don't 
know  how,  and  it  makes  your  hair  tingle. 
Lady  Rachel,  listen!  Let's  go  to  the  war." 

"The  war!" 

"Didn't  you  know  there  is  to  be  one?  And 
Morgan's  going  to  be  a  captain,  or  colonel,  or 
something.  He  wouldn't  let  me,  but  we'd 
wait  till  he  was  gone,  and  then  I'd  only  have 
to  fight  with  Uncle  Tad,  and  I  wouldn't  mind 
that." 

Mrs.  Mavering  fell  to  wondering  if  there 
had  ever  been  a  time  when  she  was  like  this 
herself,  as  bright  and  fearless;  as  little  con 
scious  or  afraid  of  looming  shadows.  She 
thought  she  had  not  been  quite  like  this.  There 
must  have  been  less  will  and  more  desire  of 
ease.  She  thought,  she  had  loved  a  better 
man  than  Morgan  Map,  at  least  one  more 
varied  and  peculiar,  if  not  so  poised  and  secure 
of  himself;  a  strange  man,  restless  and  reck 
less.  The  two  did  not  look  alike;  Jack  was 
in 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

dark,  long-jawed,  and  lean ;  but  when  she  had 
noted  Morgan  knitting  his  yellow  brows,  and 
imagined  there  was  an  odd  glint  in  his  eyes, 
she  had  thought  of  one  of  Jack's  moods,  and 
shivered.  Jack  was  never  jealous.  But  there 
was  some  mark,  something  common  to  them 
both,  that  sent  a  searching  chill,  that  seemed 
like  a  denial  of  all  close  comforts  and  small 
loving  things.  Or  was  it  only  her  own  weak 
ness  and  fanciful  fears,  born  of  those  past 
times  when  she  had  learned  to  be  afraid  of  the 
next  day? 

Thaddeus  was  an  airy  theorist.  Besides, 
he  seemed  to  be  mainly  interested  in  his  com 
mission,  which  perhaps  would  not  accrue  if 
Helen  went  off  with  her  capital  of  happiness 
independently.  Searching  through  her  ex 
perience,  she  was  not  sure  how  much  that  she 
found  bore  on  the  subject.  It  had  not  seemed 
a  question  of  courage  when  she  had  first 
girded  up  her  garments  and  followed  where 
she  was  led.  It  had  seemed  inevitable.  Jack's 
name  was  the  whole  dictionary,  and  there 
appeared  to  be  no  word  entirely  outside  of  it. 
And  then  the  awakening;  a  series  of  chasms 
opening,  the  bright  world  breaking  up,  and 
sections  of  it  tumbling  down  the  black  chasms. 
112 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

She  seemed  to  see  his  face,  with  its  large,  mobile 
mouth,  painted  against  Thaddeus's  fireplace, 
as  he  had  looked  when  he  had  left  her  that 
last  day  in  the  early  morning ;  heard  his  laugh, 
and  the  echo  in  the  empty  hall  of  the  door  that 
had  closed  behind  him. 

"I'm  afraid  I  have  had  almost  enough  of 
adventures.  When  I  came  back  to  live  here 
I  was  very  tired/' 

"Are  you  going  to  tell  me?"  said  Helen,  in 
an  awed  tone. 

"Perhaps  not  everything.  But  you  know 
I  was  born  here,  and  my  name  was  Ulic,  and 
all  that,  till  I  was  married.  Mr.  Mavering 
came  to  Hamilton  when  I  was  about  your  age, 
and  I  think  he  was  looking  for  anything  that 
would  interest  him,  but  not  expecting  it  would 
interest  him  very  long.  He  had  a  great  deal 
of  money  then,  but  he  has  done  all  sorts  of 
things  with  it,  and  I  don't  know  that  he  has 
any  now.  I  suppose  he  was  engaged  in  what 
your  uncle  calls  'the  pursuit  of  happiness,' 
and  he  seemed  to  be  successful.  He  got  so 
much  amusement  wherever  he  went,  and  his  way 
of  doing  it  was — some  of  it — expensive.  But 
perhaps  it  cost  me  more  than  any  one  else,  unless 
— but  I  don't  know  about  that.  He  was  very 
s  113 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

clever,  and  I  thought  him  wonderful.  I  think 
he  must  have  been  a  little  extraordinary.  I 
thought  no  one  else  had  a  lover  who  paid  such 
compliments.  He  used  to  say, '  Life  is  a  joke 
between  God  and  the  devil.  You  are  a  bright 
remark  by  the  former,  Rachel,  and  I  am  the 
latter's  repartee/  He  never  tried  to  conceal 
anything  about  himself.  Then  we  went  ad 
venturing.  You  see,  my  story  turns  on  Jack's 
being  so  queer — at  least,  his  coming  to  seems  so 
to  me.  I  couldn't  like  things  and  people  that 
were  evil  and  coarse,  or  like  being  always 
dragged  into  the  danger  of  some  kind  of  dis 
grace.  You  can't,  if  you  have  been  taught  to 
be  scrupulous.  But  he  did  not  seem  to  see 
differences  between  good  and  bad,  and  refined 
and  coarse,  or  else  he  thought  them  petty  dif 
ferences.  He  liked  almost  anything  except 
being  dull.  We  went  from  place  to  place, 
and  across  the  sea  and  back  again.  He  was 
restless — and  reckless.  I  think  he  was  too 
reckless  of  me.  Once  we  had  a  house  at  New 
Orleans,  where  the  planters  used  to  come  and 
play  cards,  and  there  were  queer  women  with 
very  dark  eyes,  and  some  of  the  planters  were 
quite  old  men.  But  one  night  one  of  the  women 
killed  a  planter  with  a  knife,  on  the  stairs. 
114 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

Then  we  got  out  of  a  window  on  a  back  roof, 
and  through  alleys  to  the  levee,  and  went  up 
the  river  in  the  morning  on  a  steamer.  I 
don't  know  what  it  was  all  about — quite.  But 
there  were  things  that  happened  which  I  minded 
more  than  that.  I  used  to  be  so  tired,  so  afraid. 
Then  I  grew  to  be  afraid  of  Jack,  because  I 
couldn't  understand  him,  because  whenever 
things  were  very  black  and  horrible,  or  seemed 
so  to  me,  he  acted  more  amused  and  queer, 
as  if  it  were  all  a  kind  of  play  in  the  theatre. 
And  he  did  not  grow  worse  through  all  this; 
he  did  not  change  at  all;  but  I  grew  worse. 
I  tried  to  be  like  him,  but  I  couldn't.  Of  course, 
we  knew  a  great  many  people,  and  sometimes 
were  fashionable.  Once  in  London  we  went 
to  great  balls  and  receptions.  But  Jack  saw 
some  Hindoo  snake-charmers,  and  wanted  to 
be  one,  and  travel  about  in  turbans  and  yellow 
cloth.  I  don't  know  why  we  didn't  do  that, 
but  we  came  home  soon  after.  And  we  quar 
relled  very  miserably — that  is,  I  did.  Then  the 
Ulics  became  excited  about  it.  One  night, 
or  early  in  the  morning,  I  woke  up  and  heard 
some  one  very  angry  in  the  next  room.  Jack 
never  became  angry.  It  was  another  man.  I 
don't  know  who  it  was.  There  was  a  struggle. 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

I  suppose  Jack  struck  him,  and  he  fell.  I 
crept  and  opened  the  door.  The  window  was 
open  and  Jack  was  dropping  the  man  out  of  it 
into  the  area.  Then  he  laughed  to  himself, 
and  turned  around  and  saw  me/''  Mrs.  Maver- 
ing's  voice  faltered,  and  she  paused. 

"It  wasn't  so  much  of  an  incident,  only  it 
was  the  last.  After  he  left  I  began  to  shiver 
and  sob,  and  I  crept  to  the  window  and  closed 
it.  I  thought  he  had  killed  him,  but  of  course 
he  hadn't.  It  was  winter,  and  the  snow  was 
deep  in  the  area.  He  dragged  the  man  up  the 
steps,  held  him  by  the  collar  against  the  railing, 
and  brushed  him  and  laughed.  Then  he  took 
him  away,  holding  him  up  by  the  arm.  It 
was  characteristic,  for  he  never  bore  any  per 
son  a  gnidge  for  any  harm  he  may  have  done 
that  person.  Most  people  do.  lie  doesn't  bear 
me  any  grudge.  I  came  back  to  Hamilton 
then. 

"Forgive  me  for  telling  you  my  poor  story. 
I  thought  when  I  began  there  might  be  some 
thing  in  it  to  tell  you  particularly,  but  I  see 
there  wasn't.  And  really  it  isn't  much  of  a 
story,  only  a  quantity  of  details. 

"I  suppose,"  she  continued,  slowly,  after 
another  pause,  "that  your  uncle  would  class 
116 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

Jack  with  the  half  civilized,  or  belonging  real 
ly  to  a  past  time,  when  everything  was  un 
settled  and  everybody  was  adventurous.  He 
calls  Morgan  Map  a  primary,  or  aboriginal.  I 
suppose  he  would  call  Jack  a  secondary,  or 
nomadic,  and  perhaps/'  with  a  little  laugh, 
"he  calls  himself  a  tertiary.  I  wonder  if 
there  are  any  more  degrees/' 

Helen  sat  very  quietly,  drooping  her  head, 
and  did  not  smile.  Without  understanding, 
she  felt  as  if  a  hand  in  the  darkness  had 
struck  her,  as  if  a  vista  had  opened,  and  all 
along  it  were  crouching  melancholy  shapes 
and  strange  fears  with  faces  hidden. 

When  Thaddeus  came  back  he  stood  a  mo 
ment  in  the  doorway,  and  smiled  with  wrinkled 
cheeks. 

"You  look,"  he  said,  "like  Israel  by  the 
waters  of  Babylon/' 

117 


Chapter  X 

Of  Spring   in  Hamilton  —  Of  Thaddeus's   Opportunity 
to  be  Candid 

IN  the  open  country  the  seasons  are  free, 
and  work  their  will  with  spacious  confidence. 
There  is  room  between  heaven  and  earth. 
Spring  runs  down  the  back  of  the  mountain 
forest,  and  races  the  river ;  the  heat  of  summer 
has  reason,  leisure,  and  is  motherly  of  green 
things;  autumn  has  its  cornfields,  leagues  of 
yellow  landscape,  and  the  progress  in  cool 
order  of  harvest  and  death ;  winter  its  distances 
and  long-drawn  breath  from  the  pole.  Their 
functions  there  are  customary,  familiar,  old. 
The}?-  can  swing  at  large.  They  need  not  hesi 
tate.  But  in  city  streets  they  go  timidly,  as  if 
they  fancied  something  in  man  and  his  civil 
doings  not  in  the  original  regulations.  They 
are  conservative.  An  innovation  was  made, 
not  so  long  ago,  in  their  ancient  memories; 
a  creature  containing  an  unknown  chemical 
was  developed  and  introduced.  They  seem 

118 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

to  remember  that  objections  were  made  at  the 
time.  It  was  said,  "You  never  can  tell  what 
will  come  of  it."  And  you  never  could.  They 
never  became  used  to  or  at  ease  with  it.  The 
innovation  was  even  dissatisfied  with  nature, 
the  ground-plan  and  mother  of  them  all.  He 
laid  out  cities  to  contradict  her.  He  questioned, 
too,  the  wisdom  of  his  creation,  noted  his  own 
discordance,  and  went  on  to  call  his  discontent 
divine. 

And  spring  entered  Hamilton.  One  felt 
something  moist,  warm,  and  sticky  in  the  air, 
and  knew  what  she  was  about,  trying  to  make 
civil  kisses  out  of  her  fructifying  young  en 
thusiasm,  her  tidal  tenderness,  and  feeling 
embarrassed  so  that  she  made  something 
moist,  warm,  and  sticky.  Baby  green  leaves 
were  on  the  maples  of  Shannon  Street  and  on 
the  elms  of  the  Common ;  rain  was  on  the  roofs 
at  dawn,  and  the  gutters  flowed  all  day;  busy 
citizen  birds  were  notable  on  lawns,  strayed 
songsters  gurgling  with  happiness,  or  voicing 
spring  longing  in  plaintive  "pee-wees." 

And  Hamilton   cared  little  about   it.     The 

Third  Volunteers  and  a  troop  of  militia  cavalry 

were  camped  in  the  Fair  grounds  by  the  end 

of  May,  and  people  sat  in  the  grand  stands  to 

"9 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

see  them  drill.  There  were  rows  of  neat,  new 
tents,  lines  of  men  trying  to  keep  step  to  a  drum, 
bugle  calls,  cavalry  charges,  and  turf  cut  to 
mud  or  dust.  A  blue  sky  was  overhead  whose 
peace  was  too  deep  and  distant  to  be  known, 
but  one  could  infer  it  from  the  nearer  peace  of 
the  white,  drifting  clouds.  There  was  Lieuten 
ant  Map,  with  straps,  visored  cap,  and  sword, 
which  Thaddeus  thought  should  have  been  a 
club  or  javelin.  "  He'll  not  be  suitably  dressed 
till  he's  tattooed/'  Thaddeus  even  pursued  and 
caught  happiness  in  the  situation,  the  changing 
pulse  of  the  times.  There  were  advantages  to 
society  in  this  panoply  and  thrill  of  war,  which 
filled  the  eye  and  ear,  entertained  the  thoughts, 
stirred  the  feelings  to  an  interested  activity. 
Society  became  more  united,  the  units  more 
sympathetic  with  each  other.  It  was  not  good 
for  banking;  but  for  society,  really,  to  sit  in  a 
grand-stand  and  watch  extraordinary  affairs 
go  on  in  which  society  had  such  share  and 
interest,  was  for  society  in  the  highest  degree, 
in  point  of  fact,  inspiring.  How  brutal,  how 
degrading,  how  primitive  the  Roman  arenas! 
But  here  the  higher  feelings  were  enlisted. 
One  saw  battle-grounds  imaginatively — their 
blood  and  dust  idealized,  made  symbolic. 
120 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

Rachel  and  Helen  agreed  with  him  without 
difficulty.  It  seemed  to  Helen  quite  splendid 
and  natural  for  Morgan  to  go  to  the  war.  And 
both  thought  the  cavalry  and  the  bugles  made 
everything  real.  It  was  not  so  long  before  that 
one  heard  there  was  such  a  place  as  Sumter, 
and  even  yet  the  objections  made  to  anybody's 
firing  at  it  seemed  a  little  difficult  to  grasp  with 
sympathy.  Was  not  a  fort  made  to  be  fired 
at?  A  little  while  before  they  had  been  told 
to  dislike  abolitionists,  and  had  done  so.  Now 
they  were  told  to  dislike  secessionists,  and  did 
so ;  but  both  were  abstract.  But  here,  on  the 
familiar  Fair  grounds,  were  visible  men  in 
earnest,  who  were  to  be  shot  at  and  possibly 
hit  by  individuals.  It  was  another  matter 
than  abstract  secessionists  shooting  at  a  fort 
that  was  not  interesting  in  itself.  So  that 
Rachel  and  Helen  waved  their  handkerchiefs, 
and  Thaddeus  rapped  with  his  cane,  while  the 
dark-blue  lines  broke  and  reformed,  the  bugles 
sounded,  drums  beat,  troops  of  horsemen  swept 
by,  and  overhead  the  sky  possessed  another 
blue  and  the  drifting  clouds  a  different  move 
ment. 

They  came  home  by  Philip's  road.  The 
maples  on  Philip's  road  spread  leaves  that  had 
121 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

passed  from  babyhood  into  youth  in  the  sun 
light  and  soft,  damp  air.  They  found  Gard 
sitting  disconsolately  on  Mrs.  Mavering's  steps, 
in  blue  uniform.  Thaddeus  said,  "There's 
another  patriot  whose  clothes  don't  fit." 

"I  was  afraid  I'd  have  to  leave  before  you 
came/'  Gard  explained.  "I've  had  a  rapid 
day.  Decided  at  one  o'clock  to  enlist;  enlisted 
at  two;  told  the  rector  at  three  I  wouldn't  play 
his  old  organ  a  day  longer ;  drew  this  outfit  at 
four.  It's  five  now.  But  the  rector  was  game. 
He  said  if  he  was  twenty  years  younger  he 
wouldn't  preach  in  his  old  pulpit  any  more. 
May  I  come  in  half  an  hour,  Mrs.  Ma ver ing?" 

Thaddeus  settled  his  glasses.  "  Young  man, 
I  should  have  said  you  were  too  wise  for  a 
warrior.  Are  you  aware  that  cold  lead,  taken 
suddenly  in  any  quantity,  is  injurious  to  the 
system?" 

"What  system?" 

"The  physical  system  of  the  —  a  —  person 
taking  it." 

"Is  it?"  said  Gard.  "But  it  might  be  a 
mental  tonic." 

They  all  went  in  except  Thaddeus,  who 
walked  down  the  street,  scenting  the  air  with 
delicate  nostril. 

122 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

"I  don't — that  one— I  don't  seem  to  make 
him  out/' 

"  You  see,  Mrs.  Havering/'  said  Gard,  "there 
are  only  a  few  people  I  want  to  tell  about  any 
thing  I  do — you  and  Helen,  and  Fritz  Moselle, 
and  some  of  the  brothers.  Now,  Fritz  Moselle 
will  say,  'Vat  for  a  fool  of  a  musician!  Aber, 
you  nefer  get  so  fat  as  me  if  you  don'  be  con 
tented.  '  Brother  Francis  will  quote  the  Anab 
asis,  and  Andrew  will  give  it  up,  and  the 
Superior  act  like  the  Apocalypse.  Now,  what 
do  you  say?" 

"I  don't  know.  Every  one  else  is  thinking 
about  one  thing  now.  I  should  have  said  you 
would  think  about  something  different." 

Gard  kindled  with  the  eagerness  peculiar  to 
him  when  on  the  track  of  an  idea,  or  trying  to 
state  one  that  was  clear  to  him  but  seemed  to 
struggle  against  statement — a  kind  of  tension 
and  nervous  thrill,  like  that  of  a  hunting  dog 
when  the  trail  is  hot. 

"But  going  with  the  crowd  is  all  right  if  it's 
going  the  way  you  want  to  go.  And  the  more 
undistinguished  from  the  mass  you  appear  to 
be,  the  more  you  can  keep  a  unit  to  yourself. 
I  shouldn't  like  to  be  an  officer,  for  then  I'd 
be  responsible  for  other  men.  But  a  private 
123 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

marches  where  he's  ordered,  and  shoots  ac 
cording  to  prescription.  So  he  can  watch  the 
big  phenomenon  all  around  him  and  feel  it 
racing  through  his  blood.  Can't  he?  I  can 
feel  it  already.  Can't  you?  Of  course.  But 
I  want  to  look  it  in  the  face.  If  a  man  had 
a  chance  to  be  a  crusader  in  his  time  he'd  be 
foolish  to  miss  it.  He'd  miss  the  flavor  of  his 
time.  I'd  sooner  decline  the  acquaintance  of  a 
Shakespeare." 

He  looked  at  Helen  eagerly.  She  stood 
among  the  potted  plants  in  the  bay  window, 
looking  out.  He  had  thought  she  would  seem 
more  interested.  She  must  be  interested.  Any 
one  who  had  seen  her  eyes  light  up  sudden 
ly  and  often  would  know  that.  He  wondered 
what  clue  to  some  unexpected  significance  she 
was  following  now,  that  she  seemed  absent- 
minded  among  the  potted  plants.  Every  one 
had  his  or  her  personal  solitary  adventure. 
Helen,  of  course,  had  hers.  One  had  to  re 
member  that. 

"I  play  to-night  the  last  time.  Will  you  be 
under  the  gallery?" 

Then  he  went  away.  And  Helen,  among  the 
potted  plants,  followed  a  clue  to  this  unex 
pected  significance,  that  it  did  not  seem  to  her 
124 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

splendid  and  natural  for  Gard,  too,  to  go  to  the 
war.  It  seemed  like  the  hand  in  the  darkness 
from  Rachel's  story,  the  vista  where  melan 
choly  shapes  and  fears  crouched  and  hid  their 
faces.  She  watched  him  go  down  Queen  Mary 
Street  towards  the  Common.  Morgan  Map, 
striding  down  from  Philip's  road,  saw  him 
come  out,  said  to  himself,  referring  to  the  uni 
form,  "It's  that  organ  player!  Who  next?" — 
looked  up  and  saw  Helen's  profile  above  the 
plants  in  the  window,  and  stopped.  A  moment 
later  he  turned  and  walked  back. 

In  Saint  Mary's,  that  night,  the  music  did 
not  seem  to  Helen  to  come  down  from  choir 
loft  as  usual,  and  talk  to  her  familiarly.  She 
could  not  make  it  say  anything.  It  stayed  up 
among  the  organ-pipes ;  and  below,  among  the 
pillars  and  aisles  instead,  the  wind  of  a  coming 
storm  blowing  in  through  the  vestibule  doors, 
half  open— for  the  night  was  heavy  and  close — 
took  its  place,  whispered,  moaned,  and  wailed  : 
"You've  no  idea  how  black  it's  growing. 
Shut  the  doors  and  hide."  At  least,  she  was 
only  able  to  make  the  music  say  something 
about  going  away,  and  that  "if  people  never 
meet  again,  never  is  a  long,  long  time."  She 
was  glad  when  it  was  over,  and  Gard  came 
125 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

around  and  under  the  gallery.  They  walked 
across  the  yard  silently.  The  night  had  grown 
black,  the  branches  tossed,  and  the  leaves 
fluttered  audibly  in  the  darkness  over  them. 
They  found  Morgan  walking  to  and  fro  in  the 
edge  of  the  light  from  Mrs.  Mavering's  window. 

"Why,  Morgan!" 

And  Gard  saluted,  "Lieutenant/' 

"I  want  to  see  you,  Nellie.  Are  you  going 
home?"  Then  to  Gard  and  his  uniform, 
"Isn't  that  rather  sudden?" 

"It's  the  latest  fashion.  I  report  at  nine, 
they  say.  Good-night." 

And  Mrs.  Mavering,  mounting  her  steps, 
turned  to  watch  Morgan  and  Helen,  and  noted 
that  they,  too,  walked  quite  silently  still,  till 
they  turned  the  corner  in  front  of  Thaddeus's 
house  and  disappeared. 

Thaddeus  sat  in  the  little  room  behind  the 
drawing  -  room.  At  the  sound  of  the  rising 
wind  he  went  to  the  window,  looked  out  un 
easily,  and  listened.  The  wind  was  too  loud 
for  him  to  hear  the  organ,  even  if  it  still  were 
going.  But  he  heard  the  hall-door  open,  and 
so  went  back  contentedly  to  his  newspaper, 
in  which  it  was  stated  that  a  certain  officer,  in 
bringing  a  Confederate  flag  from  a  hotel  roof 
126 


"The    Debatable    Land'1 

in  Alexandria,  was  shot  by  the  hotel-keeper, 
who  in  turn  was  shot  by  a  person  accompany 
ing  the  said  officer.  Really,  people  acted  with 
singular  earnestness  and  energy  nowadays. 
He  laid  down  the  paper.  On  the  wall  opposite, 
in  the  gilded  oval  frame,  was  the  picture  of  Mrs. 
Thaddeus  Bourn,  not  in  reality  a  mythical 
person  at  all,  and  yet  there  was  a  certain  in 
distinctness  in  Thaddeus's  memory  of  her  —  a 
certain  absence  of  salient  points.  She  had  not, 
perhaps,  been  characterized  by  earnestness  and 
energy.  But  nowadays — 

"Don't  bother  me,  Morgan/'  said  Helen,  im 
patiently.  They  were  in  the  drawing-room, 
not  far  from  the  curtained  door. 

"But  we  start  next  week — " 

"That/'  murmured  Thaddeus,  "is  not,  in 
point  of  fact,  such  a  bad  idea/' 

"  And  now,  Nellie,  I  think  it  would  be  better 
if  every  one  knew  what  you  are  to  me  before  I 
left.  I'll  tell  you  why  I  didn't  want  it  be 
fore—" 

"It's  funny,  but  you  never  take  the  trouble 
to  ask  what  you  are  to  me." 

There  was  a  silence  that  suggested  threats. 
As  far  as  Thaddeus  could  make  out  she  had 
seemed   to   speak   quite   coolly.     "She   won't 
127 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

lose  her  head.  God  bless  her!"  he  thought; 
"but— a— I  think  I'll  step  into  this." 

"If  you're  going  to  be  subtle,"  said  Morgan, 
at  last,  with  a  new  harshness  and  blare  in  his 
voice,  "  I  sha'n't  understand  it.  It's  perfectly 
simple.  I  want  you  to  tell  your  uncle —  Well, 
then,  I  will." 

Thaddeus  pulled  the  curtain  and  went 
through. 

"I  beg  pardon.     I  seem  to  be  referred  to." 

Morgan  turned  where  he  stood.  Helen  sat 
in  a  low  chair  before  the  sea-coal  fire,  and  did 
not  look  up  or  turn  her  head. 

"  I  should  have  —  if  I  had  supposed  the  con 
versation  was  to  be  of  such  a  private  nature  — 
I  should  have  —  a  —  signified  my  presence  be 
fore.  As  it  is,  I  take  the  opportunity  to  ob 
serve  that  your  —  a  —  importunity  appears  to 
be  unpleasant  to  Helen,  to  request  that  you  — 
a  —  leave  her  alone,  and  to  state  that  —  a  —  no 
engagement  between  you  will  ever  exist  with 
my  consent  or  her  mother's." 

"It  does  exist." 

"  I  doubt  it.  Have  you,  then,  ever  promised 
to  marry  him,  Helen?" 

"I  don't  remember  I  was  ever  asked  to." 

Something  like  a  flame  went  across  Mor- 
128 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

gan's  face,  left  red  spots  on  it,  and  a  glare  in 
his  eyes. 

"Helen!"  The  chandelier  shook  with  his 
voice  and  step.  Helen  did  not  move  or  look 
at  him.  Thaddeus  raised  a  deprecating  hand. 
"I  must  beg  you  not  to  shout  in  my  house/' 
Morgan  paused  and  concentrated.  The  nat 
ural  thing  to  do,  the  simple  instinct,  would  be, 
with  one  hand  to  crumple  up  this  grinning 
old  idiot — tall  stock  and  curled  hair  and  all — 
stuff  him  away  somewhere,  and  carry  off  Helen 
into  the  windy  night,  with  her  white  dress  and 
blue  ribbon  around  the  throat.  It  seemed  im 
possible,  even  in  an  artificial  age,  that  slim 
creatures  should  dare  to  balk  him.  She  stood 
up  quickly,  and  he  caught  her  closely-  about  the 
shoulders  with  his  arm. 

"It's  absolute  nonsense — " 

"  Please  let  me  go,  Morgan.  I  don't  want  to 
fight." 

"Tell  your  uncle  you  belong  to  me." 

"No!" 

"Helen,  do  as  I  say!" 

"No!" 

Thaddeus  pointed  at  Morgan's  arm. 

"Will  you  kindly — thank  you." 

Helen  fled,  through  hall  and  up  the  stairs, 
9  129 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

a  shimmer  of  white  skirts  past  the  hall  lamp  ; 
and  in  her  room  she  leaned  from  the  window 
and  let  the  rain  drive  against  her  face.  Mrs. 
Mavering's  window  threw  a  great  bar  into  the 
night.  Morgan's  voice  below  seemed  to  fill 
the  drawing  -  room,  the  hall,  and  came  rolling 
up  the  stair  after  her,  in  muttering  pursuit. 
She  gave  a  half  sob,  listened  a  moment,  and 
began  to  laugh. 

"I'm  glad  Uncle  Tad  has  that  row." 

"I  remember/'  said  Thaddeus,  amiably,  "I 
remember  being  — a — rejected  once  myself.  It 
was  unpleasant,  very  unpleasant." 

"  Do  you  think  a  thing  of  seven  years  is  go 
ing  to  be  thrown  out  like  this?  Do  you  think 
I'm  a  man  to  put  up  with  this  kind  of  busi 
ness?  Do  you  think  I  don't  know  Helen?" 

"I  think,"  said  Thaddeus," that  you  don't. 
My  dear  fellow,  you  have  made  a  curious 
mistake,  and  yet — and  yet  quite  logical.  I  am 
charmed  to  say,  quite  such  as  I  should  have 
predicted.  You  have  treated  a  woman  with  a 
certain  contempt.  You  couldn't  help  it.  It 
expressed,  if  I  may  say  so,  the  degree  of  your 
culture.  Nevertheless,  a  mistake.  Deference, 
deference  —  they  like  it.  It  belongs  to  them.  It 
is  —  a  —  their  accumulated  inheritance.  Seven 
130 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

years — at  thirteen  —  but,  my  dear  fellow,  a 
child!  You  announce  your  intention  to  a 
growing  girl,  by  whose — a — admiring  worship 
it  is  received  with  awe.  You  suppose  she  con 
tinues  to  worship  you  in  the  same  primitive 
manner.  You  suppose  your  ownership  and 
property  established,  that  it  merely  remains  to 
dictate  and  receive.  How  simple,  how — pardon 
me — characteristic!  By  the  way,  your  father, 
I  recollect,  had  a  singular  opinion  of  you.  I 
am  candid,  you  see.  It  appears  to  be  your 
faculty — remarkably  so — to  invite  candor.  If 
I  recollect,  he  thought,  supposing  you  were  in 
some  way  blown  up  or  ground  up  into  small 
fragments — some  accident,  some  catastrophe — 
and  then  fitted  together  carefully — supposing, 
if  I  understood  him,  this  process  repeated  suf 
ficiently —  you  might  —  but  I  doubt  it  —  a  — 
paternal  weakness.  But  as  to  the  situation  at 
present,  I  cannot  conceal  my — a — satisfaction." 
Morgan  glowered  under  reddish-yellow  brows, 
and  Thaddeus  talked  on  with  persistent  ami 
ability.  So  grim  and  forcible  looked  Morgan, 
so  likely  to  be  summary  or  primitive  inaction, 
that  it  seemed  to  argue  for  Thaddeus  a  fine 
trust  in  the  strength  of  social  restraint,  his 
continuing  that  airy,  provocative  speech. 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

"  A  distinction  arises — a  child,  a  woman.  It 
arose  in  Helen,  no  doubt,  during  her  sickness. 
You  observed  the  distinction,  I  presume,  but 
only  from  its  effect  on  you.  But,  really,  you 
know,  it  must  have  affected  her.  I  have,  in 
my  time,  studied  the  sex — a  subject  of  delight 
ful  interest/' 

"I  don't  pretend  to  take  interest  in  your  de 
lights/'  Morgan  had  grown  cool. 

"Quite  so/'  murmured  Thaddeus. 

"  Go  ahead,  and  enjoy  them.  I  suggest  you 
don't  interfere  with  me.  I  want  Helen  and 
will  have  her.  There  is  a  bond — " 

"Allow  me.  Has  been,  perhaps,  an  under 
standing  assumed." 

"I'm  not  going  to  quibble  with  words." 

"  Exactly.  Whatever  there  has  been,  or  been 
assumed  to  be,  quite  clear,  no  longer  is —  is 
no  longer  assumed.  I  believe  I  speak  with 
authority." 

"I'm  not  going  to  quibble  about  your  au 
thority,  either.  You  can  flutter  it  as  much  as 
you  please.  I'll  see  Helen  alone." 

"Not  to-night.  A  — a  little  flutter  of  au 
thority.  You  leave  next  week?  I  shall  not, 
perhaps,  take  the  trouble  to  prevent  your  seeing 
Helen.  I  shall  take  the  trouble  to  see  that 
132 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

nothing  comes  of  it.  My  dear  boy,  I'm  ex 
tremely  sorry.  I  don't  like  you.  Your  invi 
tation  to  candor  is  irresistible/7 

Morgan  laughed  shortly,  turned,  and  went 
into  the  hall.  Thaddeus  followed. 

"Really,  it's  raining.  Let  me  lend  you — 
but  a  soldier,  of  course — what  a  blessing  is 
youth!  Exit!" — to  the  now  closed  outer  door 
— "exit  the  primitive." 

And  so  spring  came  to  an  end,  with  a  warm 
rain  murmuring  on  the  roofs  all  night,  soaking 
down  the  roots  of  the  maples,  driving  part  of  the 
Third  Regiment  to  sleep  in  the  grand-stands. 
As  in  sleeping  Hamilton  no  one  knew  another's 
dream,  so  almost  as  little  by  lamp-light  or  at 
dawn  did  any  watcher  truly  imagine  another's 
thought.  Who  shall  escape  the  dungeon  of 
himself?  The  policeman  on  the  corner  of 
Shannon  Street  and  Philip's  road,  when 
Morgan  rushed  by  him,  sympathized  with  an 
apparent  hurry  to  get  out  of  the  comfortless 
rain.  Thaddeus,  before  his  sea-coal  fire,  plotted 
such  happy  paths  for  Helen  to  walk  in  as  an 
enlightened  egoism  showed  would  be  best  for 
Thaddeus.  Helen  let  the  rain  drive  in  her  face, 
and  thought  that,  "  if  people  never  meet  again, 
never  will  be  a  long,  long  time."  Gard  stood 
133 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

in  the  middle  of  his  study,  looked  around  him, 
whistled  "The  Campbells  Are  Coming/'  and 
called  it  clearing  up.  Books,  music,  piano, 
chairs,  and  memories  of  meditations — he  thought 
he  did  not  care  much  what  became  of  them. 
There  was  a  new  time  coming,  and  time  it  came. 
"This  is  no  world  to  play  with  mammets  and 
to  tilt  with  lips.  We  must  have  bloody  noses 
and  cracked  crowns."  "The  Campbells  are 
coming — trala!  trala!"  Mrs.  Mavering  drew 
the  rope  of  her  long  black  hair  over  her  shoul 
der,  smoothed  it  on  her  knee,  and  thought  of 
the  terms  "  commission  "  and  "  estates  in  hap 
piness/'  The  braid  was  thick  and  glossy.  It 
seemed  hard  if  her  own  play  were  quite  ended 
and  story  told.  What,  nothing  more!  Rest 
lessness  must  come  from  overbrooding,  or  the 
new  stir  of  the  times.  A  woman's  story  ended 
too  soon.  What  a  melancholy  noise  the  rain 
made! 

Who  shall  escape  the  dungeon  of  himself, 

or  look  from  its  clouded  windows  through  the 

clouded  windows  even  of  that  one  which  lies 

nearest,  where  another  prisoner  strains  to  see? 

134 


Chapter  XI 

The  Whirlpool. — Mr.  Paulus's  Reminiscences  of  Women. 

THE  Third  Regiment  went  its  way.  Visibly, 
it  resembled  swarms  of  bees  when  last  seen 
clinging  to  the  freight  cars,  or  an  excited  picnic 
with  ornamental  bayonets,  but  to  a  larger  con 
templation  rather  a  stream  of  sea-drift  drawn 
into  the  suck  and  roar  of  a  growing  whirlpool. 
Men  are  noisy  and  cheerful,  and  seldom  know 
their  own  pathos.  But  the  streets  of  Hamilton 
seemed  empty,  though  hardly  fewer  people 
went  to  and  fro ;  in  the  faces  of  women  here  and 
there,  there  was  a  certain  premonitory  desolation. 

Helen  felt  the  emptiness  to  be  extraordinary 
— unexpected;  an  emptiness  between  her  and 
the  sky;  rooms  mysteriously  disf urnished ; 
things  that  people  said  sounding  hollow,  as  if 
the  meaning  of  words  had  fallen  away  from 
beneath  them;  Saint  Mary's  at  night  became 
silent  and  dark,  except  for  now  and  then  a 
droning  service  without  palaces  or  towers  of 
sound. 

135 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

"To  what  end/'  reflected  Thaddeus,  "am  I 
a  student  of  human  nature  in  the  subtle  sex? 
If  she  doesn't  miss  that  antediluvian  brute, 
I'm  an  addled  egg/' 

"We're  dreadfully  dull,  Lady  Rachel,  aren't 
we?"  said  Helen.  "Let's  be  Knights  Hos 
pitallers." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"All  the  rest  do  is  to  scrape  lint  and  read 
newspapers  and  potter.  Why  couldn't  we 
enlist  and  be  nurses?" 

"I  dare  say  we  could." 

"With  white  caps  and  big  cuffs?  Could 
we?" 

Mrs.  Havering  wondered  at  Helen's  influence 
over  her.  She  had  watched  it  grow,  with  a 
half-amused  curiosity.  She  had  thought  to 
be  the  girl's  guide  and  helper,  and  that  this 
new  interest  would  be  her  reward  upon  Thad- 
deus's  theory  of  commissions.  But  she  had 
seemed  more  and  more  to  be  following,  not 
leading ;  as  if,  in  the  actual  onward  game  of 
life,  experience,  instead  of  a  lamp  before,  were 
a  lamp  behind,  darkening  the  path  with  the 
shadow  of  ourselves.  To  remember  only  made 
one  irresolute.  It  was  necessary  to  be  young, 
or  else  to  forget — at  any  rate,  to  be  valiant. 
136 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

But  had  she  not  had  enough  of  excitement, 
adventure,  the  ragged  seams  of  things,  variety 
and  burlesque,  and  been  soul-sick  through  it 
all,  and  fled  at  last  from  its  noise  and  passions? 
She  shook  her  head,  not  so  much  at  Helen  as 
at  the  other  side  of  her  own  inner  argument. 

"  Collars  and  cuffs,  Lady  Rachel !    But  you'd 
look  beautiful!" 

"That  isn't  what  people  want  in  nurses/' 
"  It  isn't?  But  it  is !  Why,  if  I  were  a  man, 
and  had  you  around  looking  like  a  remorseful 
queen  who  had  just  hung  up  her  robe  and 
crown  on  the  hat-rack,  and  was  trying  to  be 
humble  with  collars  and  cuffs,  and  all  that,  I'd 
get  well  if  I  were  shot  criss-cross.  I'd  say, 
'  This  world  is  too  fine  to  leave. ' ' 

"  How  vshould  you  know  what  you  would  do?" 
"Oh!"  She  hesitated,  and  drooped  a  little. 
"I  think  it  was  Gard  said  that."  Then,  with 
returned  animation :  "He  was  so  funny,  Lady 
Rachel.  I  asked  him  if  he  didn't  think  you 
were  all  that,  and  he  only  said,  'This  world 
is  too  fine  to  leave;  I  think  I'll  stay  quite  a 
while.'" 

It  did  not  all  seem  to  Mrs.  Havering  a  direct 
argument  to  go  hospi tailing ;  only  it  seemed 
to  fall  in  line  with  other  questionings  about  the 
137 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

fallen  curtain,  and  whether  it  might  not  again 
be  raised.  One  might  be  content  with  a  minor 
part. 

They  went  up  to  Hagar  at  the  end  of  June, 
and  spent  the  blue-and-green  summer  together 
in  the  widow's  house  behind  the  militant  church. 
Thaddeus  came  every  Saturday,  invented  new 
paradoxes,  to  watch  them  fall  helplessly  on  the 
widow's  comprehension,  and  went  down  the  hill 
after  tea  in  the  wide  sunset — an  immaculate 
gentleman,  with  eyeglass,  cane,  and  smooth- 
shouldered  coat — to  talk  with  Mr.  Paulus. 

"Ain't    goin'    to   get    married    again,    are 

ye?" 

"To  whom,  Peter?    To  whom?" 

"Mrs.  M — Mav — the  one  that  looks  like  she 
cost  a  dollar  an  inch." 

"Mrs.  Mavering  is,  unfortunately,  not  as 
yet  a  widow." 

"  He  gone  to  the  war?  'Tain't  any  more'n 
reasonable  she  might  get  to  be.  Fine-lookin' 
woman  —  looks  expensive.  Well,  I  done  it 
three  times,  an'  then  guessed  I'd  quit.  I  got 
too  fat — don't  figure  as  well  at  weddin's  as  I 
once  did.  But —  Well,  I  don'  no' — the  women's 
got  in  the  habit  of  marry  in'  me." 

"Pete,"  said  Thaddeus,  softly,  "was  not  the 
138 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

first  time,  in  fact,  the  best?  When  one  is 
young!" 

"Umm—  She  was- well,  I'll  tell  ye.  Old 
Parson  Gerry  was  here  then,  an'  the  candidest 
man  in  Hamilton  County,  an'  I  went  to  him. 
'  Who  is  she?'  says  he.  I  says,  '  Hilda  Armi- 
tage.'  'Shucks!'  says  he,  'she  won't  have 
you.'  'She  will,  too,'  says  I,  pretty  mad. 
'  Well,  well,  I'll  marry  you,  but  she  ought  've 
done  a  sight  better'n  that.'  But  by-and-by 
the  parson  and  me  was  both  widowers,  an'  I 
went  to  him  again.  'Who  is  she?'  says  he. 
'Esther  Allen.'  'Good  land  alive!'  says  he, 
'I  was  going  to  ask  her  myself  next  week!' 
An'  he  appeared  to  think  Essie's  bad  luck  was 
odd — remarkable  odd." 

"I  was  asking,  Peter,  for  reminiscences  of 
your  young  romance,  tending  on  to  your  — 
a — doctrine  of  practical  matrimony,  and  so  to 
your  theory  of  —  of  woman.  We  were  at  the 
point  of  young  romance.  May  I  suggest  — 
the  clergyman  appears  to  take  up  too  much 
room.  Hilda  Armitage — " 

"  Well,  she  was  roomy,  too.     She  began  to 

lay    on     flesh     after    we    was      married    on 

credit   of   a   hundred    acres    of    Wyantenaug 

Valley  land,  came  to  her  from  Patton  Armi- 

139 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

tage,  till  she  took  a  six -by -four  coffin,  she 
did,  by—" 

"  Pass  on,  Pete,  pass  on.  Esther  Allen — a — 
the  minister's  preference  would  seem  to  have 
argued  in  her  a  certain  superior  attractiveness, 
a  certain — " 

"Jus'  so.  She  argued  it  that  way.  She'd 
never  believe  but  what  I  knew  the  week  the 
parson  had  his  eye  on,  an'  sort  of  hurried  up 
and  got  in  underhand.  'Twan't  so/'  said  Mr. 
Paulus,  earnestly.  "  'Twan't  so.  Didn't  know 
a  thing  about  it  till  he — " 

Thaddeus  raised  a  white  hand. 

"I  beg  of  you,  no  more." 

In  the  matter  of  light  on  the  "subtle  sex/' 
what  opportunities  for  study  had  not  Pete 
Paulus  thrown  away!  Mr.  Paul  us 's  drooping 
left  eyelid  drooped  lower.  He  heaved  with  a 
rumbling  chuckle. 

It  would  be  not  so  evil  a  fate  to  come  to  Hagar 
for  the  first  time,  bringing  inward  wounds  to 
its  peculiar  balsams.  The  blue  flowers  on  the 
green,  the  lilacs  in  Widow  Bourn's  garden, 
Windless  Mountain,  that  eclectic  philosopher, 
the  deep  wood  avenues,  the  league  length  of 
the  Cattle  Ridge,  the  eastern  hills  where  the 
140 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

church  spire  of  Salem  village  might  be  seen — 
one  runs  easily  into  cataloguing  details,  but 
how  convince  the  inexperienced  of  their  signif 
icance,  their  speech,  their  daily  conversations? 
Could  the  children  of  Hagar  tell  a  stranger 
the  meaning  of  the  mill  stream,  or  ever  really 
explain  the  moral  of  the  Four  Roads?  They 
were  not  mere  objects.  They  were  tangled 
with  living  years.  One  must  have  seen  visions 
and  heard  messages.  One  must  have  dropped 
a  salt  tear  by  the  road-side  and  sailed  that 
stream  to  the  Celestial  City. 

And  yet  it  was  Mrs.  Mavering  who  seemed 
to  hear  the  conversations,  the  meanings,  the 
messages,  and  not  Thaddeus  or  Helen.  Thad- 
deus  was  never  an  instance  in  point,  and  Helen 
was  restless.  Thaddeus  speculated  and  com 
mented  on  that  restlessness  to  Mrs.  Mavering, 
who  offered  few  opinions.  The  impulse  and 
daring  which  Mrs.  Mavering  knew  as  charac 
teristic  of  Helen's  speech  seemed  to  have 
turned  from  mental  to  physical  energy,  to 
climbing  cliffs  instead  of  merely  precipitous 
ideas.  It  was  as  if  speech  were  no  longer  ex 
pressive  of  facts;  as  if  both  were  learning  an 
unsyllabled  language  which  the  other  knew 
before — Mrs.  Mavering  learning  the  language 
141 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

of  the  rocks  and  the  soil,  of  growing  and  flowing 
things,  and  Helen  the  language  of  human 
living  at  a  point  in  its  syntax  which  deals  with 
the  more  searching  idioms,  the  peculiar  ques 
tion  at  which  point  is  not  merely,  "  What  does 
this  obscure  passage  mean?"  but,  "What 
does  it  mean  to  me?"  The  summer  days 
went  like  water-drops  from  the  eaves  after  a 
rain,  that  gather  and  shine  and  fall  swiftly, 
incessantly.  September  came,  where  the  green 
garment  of  the  season  runs  into  embroidery  of 
purple  and  gold. 

The  wood -path  that  runs  west  from  the 
Cattle  Ridge  road  beyond  Job  Mather's  mill 
goes  by  a  damp  hollow  where  spotted  fungi 
grow,  climbs  past  bramble  patches,  clearings, 
and  a  bold  strip  or  two  of  cliff,  turns  south 
around  a  lonely  pine-tree,  the  last  of  its  fellows, 
down  through  woods  noted  for  lady-slippers  in 
June,  and  comes  out  on  the  hill  meadows  along 
the  Red  Rock  road.  You  can  look  south  from 
this  wood's  edge  past  the  west  shoulder  of  Wind 
less  down  the  Wyantenaug,  and  to  the  east  see 
the  range  of  the  Great  South  woods,  and  near 
by  the  spire  of  the  militant  church.  But  Helen 
and  Rachel  came  there,  as  a  rule,  for  the  sake  of 
the  dominance  and  conversations  of  Windless. 
142 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

Helen  lay  on  her  back,  with  her  hands  under 
her  head  and  knees  in  the  air.  Mrs.  Mavering's 
book  was  thrown  aside. 

"Do  you  really  want  to  go?" 

"Yes." 

"I  don't  know  but  I  do.  What  will  your 
mother  say?" 

"'Why,  Helen!'" 

"And  Mr.  Bourn?" 

"  Oh,  hell  sputter  some.     I  don't  mind." 

Windless  lay  in  the  sunlight,  genial,  wise, 
sincere,  with  the  girth  of  high  living  and  the 
forehead  of  high  thought.  One  did  not  have 
to  specify  in  the  presence  of  Windless.  Every 
thing  was  understood.  Yet  Mrs.  Mavering  ask 
ed,  "I  suppose  it  isn't  Morgan  Map  at  all?" 

Helen  answered  "No,"  promptly  enough, 
and  fell  into  sombre  silence.  The  eastern 
slope  of  Windless  darkened  in  the  shadow  of 
the  lessening  afternoon,  while  the  western  only 
seemed  to  glimmer  the  more  genially;  there 
was  that  advantage  in  being  large.  "You 
see,"  she  went  on,  "it  suits  Morgan,  fighting 
and  ordering  and  doing  things.  Nothing  ever 
hurts  him.  I  don't  see  why  I  should  bother 
about  him  when  he's  having  a  good  time." 

"It's  enough  if  you  don't." 
143 


"The    Debatable    Land 


"  Well,  Lady  Rachel,  then  that's  it.     I 

"Then  we  won't  say  what  it  is?" 

"No,  please." 

"  But  I  suppose  we  can  know?" 

Helen  rolled  over  with  a  laugh,  and  hid  her 
mouth  a  moment  in  the  stubby  grass. 

"Let's  go  home." 

Widow  Bourn  said,  "Why,  Helen!"  immedi 
ately.  Thaddeus  went  with  Rachel  into  the 
garden,  and  walked  beside  her  up  and  down 
the  path  between  the  porch  and  the  lilac 
gate. 

"It  isn't  Morgan  Map.  She  doesn't  bother 
about  him  at  all." 

"She  doesn't?    Dear  me!" 

"But  I  think  it  might  be  better,  after  all." 

"What  is  it,  then?  Why  can't  she  be  con 
tented?  My  dear  lady,  my  poor  intelligence 
struggles  with  the  subject,  but  you  and  Helen 
—  hospitals,  drudgery,  dirt,  pah!  vermin.  I 
knew  she  had  the  notion.  I  labelled  it  prop 
erly,  'Notion/  I  was  aware  the  Helen  estate 
was  not  returning  the  —  a  —  interest  it  should. 
I  admit  my  commission  from  it  has  in  conse 
quence  this  summer  been  very  meagre  —  most 
irregular.  I  believe  I  appreciate,  I  strive  to 
understand,  your  difficult  sex  —  my  lifelong 
144 


"The    Debatable  Land" 

endeavor  —  but  at  present,  so  to  speak,  if  I 
may  say  so,  it  'gets  me.'" 

"Helen  has  perhaps  more  nervous  energy 
than  is  common/' 

"  Nervous !  But  might  we  not  almost  say, 
of  late,  feverish?" 

"Perhaps  we  might/' 

"Then  what— or  rather,  why?" 

"  If  Helen  had  her  secrets  it  would  not  follow 
that  she  would  confess  them  to  me,  and  surely 
you  would  know  as  quickly  as  I  if  she  had 
any.  But  if  I  have  any  intimation  you  must 
let  me  keep  it,  and  only  say  that,  perhaps,  it 
would  be  good  for  her/' 

Thaddeus  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  went 
down,  immaculately,  to  the  post-office  to  consult. 

"  Pete,  the  opportunities  you've  lost  to  study 
women!  But  you  might,  possibly,  say  some 
thing  at  random.  What's  all  this  for?" 

Mr.  Paulus's  face  was  like  the  Sphinx's  for 
extent  massiveness  and  lack  of  expression, 
but  his  left  eyelid  was  variable.  He  pondered 
some  moments.  "What  did  you  an'  me  steal 
pigs  for?  Did  we  want  the  pigs?  No.  Did 
we  want  to  see  Starr  Atherton  in  his  night 
shirt?  Some — not  much.  Well,  it  was  a  way 
we  had  of  puttin'  what  was  in  our  minds. 
145 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

What's  in  will  out.  That  girl  'd  bust  out  some 
where.  If  it  ain't  measles,  it's  boils.  That's 
what  I  say.  What's  in  will  out." 

Whatsoever  supplication  or  remonstrance 
Thaddeus  may  have  sent  up  by  himself,  he 
took  council  of  some  inward  monitor,  and 
did  not  "sputter."  He  had  his  reward  from 
Helen,  who  fell  into  a  mood  of  tentative  caress 
ing. 

In  October  they  went  to  Washington.  Thad 
deus  sniffed  a  few  weeks  about  the  streets  of 
the  capital,  and  returned  to  Hamilton,  his 
bank  and  club  and  lonely  house,  in  a  state  of 
mind  to  be  expressed  by  a  shrug  and  the  lifting 
of  a  white  hand  in  deprecation.  In  his  pursuit 
of  happiness  the  scent  seemed  to  be  lost,  the 
hunt  all  astray.  He  realized  more  than  ever 
how  much  of  his  fortune  in  that  commodity 
he  had  staked  on  one  issue.  He  doubted,  after 
all,  the  wisdom  of  it,  but  could  not  find  a  way, 
nor  in  himself  any  impulse,  to  draw  back. 
"  The  new  generation,  these  new  times !  They 
are  strenuous,  and  one  grows  old."  The  air 
was  full  of  the  war;  the  suck  of  the  whirlpool 
was  felt  in  every  corner. 
146 


part  1Tir 


Chapter  XII 

Antietam. 

A  BIG  gun  boomed  far  away  in  the  dark. 
From  nearer  came  the  snip-snap  of  picket- 
shooting,  which  increased  to  a  rattle  and  settled 
into  volleying.  On  the  hill  to  the  right  some 
one  climbed  on  a  gun-carriage  and  stood  vague 
ly  against  the  sky. 

Shadows  came  running  from  the  door  of  a 
barn  into  the  grass.  A  sleeper  cried  out  and 
sat  up  at  their  feet,  rubbing  his  trodden  hand. 

"What  do  you  make  it?" 

"We  have  no  troops  over  there.  They're 
shooting  each  other/' 

"Shooting  their  midnight  dreams/7 

"Midnight!     It's  past  three." 

"How  should  I  know?  I  was  king  of  the 
Pleiades  five  minutes  ago/' 

"Time  for  trouble  to  begin?" 

"It  won't  be  light  for  an  hour." 

"No.     Turn  in,  gentlemen." 

Shadows  sat  upright  in  the  grass  and  mut 
tered  to  each  other. 

149 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

"What's  the  Pleiades,  Jimmie?" 

"Do'  know.  Wa'n't  any  at  home  as  I  know 
of." 

"Stars,  you  galoop." 

"That's  what  the  Johnnies  were  shooting 
at." 

"Hey!  He  must  'a'  been  jokin',"  from  the 
shadow  called  Jimmie. 

"Who?" 

"The  cap'n  said  he  was  king  of  'em,  he 
did." 

"Oh,  go  to—" 

"Can't  see  any  stars  to-night." 

The  distant  volleying  died  down  to  a  rat 
tle —  to  the  crack  of  a  single  rifle  far  away, 
lonely  in  the  immense  night,  the  encircling 
silence. 

The  woods  went  around  behind  the  hill  on 
the  right.  On  the  left  a  grassy  field  stretched 
off  in  the  dark.  One  knew  by  remembrance 
that  it  sloped  down  a  gradual  mile,  till  it  came 
somewhere  to  a  slow  creek  with  a  mud  bottom. 
Outposts  lay  forward  in  a  thin  line  of  woods. 
Some  one  said  that  the  pickets  were  in  an  open 
field  beyond,  and  that  some  of  them  belonged 
to  the  other  side.  In  that  tense,  visionary 
hour  one  did  not  conceive  of  an  enemy  as  of 
150 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

separate  men,  watchful  in  fields,  sleeping  in 
distant  woods,  but  of  a  creature,  a  thing  of 
folded  miles,  crouching,  sinister,  hostile,  with 
red  tongue  and  bitter  fangs,  waiting  for  the 
dawn. 

Some  of  the  dark  lumps  in  the  grass  were 
motionless,  some  stirred  and  muttered.  Through 
the  open  door  of  the  barn  a  group  of  men 
could  be  seen  around  a  lantern  and  lean 
ing  forward.  One  of  them  marked  and  pointed 
with  his  finger.  A  horse  kicked  and  squealed 
on  the  hill  among  the  guns.  A  dog  howled 
in  some  indefinite  distance  and  direction.  The 
birds  began  to  twitter  in  the  trees  of  the  beet 
ling  woods.  A  creeping  wind  chilled  the  dew 
on  the  faces  of  sleepers  and  watchers  in  the 
open.  The  blackness  grew  conscious  —  dimly 
gray. 

Two  or  three  came  out  of  the  barn  and  ran 
behind  it.  In  a  moment  there  was  a  cluttered 
thudding  of  horses'  feet,  which  died  away  down 
the  field.  Pickets  began  shooting  in  front. 
Little  things  whimpered  and  whined  overhead. 
An  officer,  by  the  glimmer  of  his  straps,  went 
forward  and  shouted  in  the  woods.  The  near 
firing  stopped,  or  most  of  it,  but  the  things 
overhead  continued  to  whimper  and  whine. 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

The  lumps  on  the  grass  began  to  sit  up  and 
strip  off  blankets. 

"What's  he  stopping  'em  for?" 

"Nothing  in  it." 

"The  Johnnies  keep  it  up." 

"They're  firing  high." 

Fires  of  gathered  dead-wood  sprang  up  on 
the  woods'  edge — a  score  in  sight,  then  a  hun 
dred,  smoking  and  crackling.  A  low  murmur, 
a  sense  of  multitude,  grew  as  the  darkness  lifted 
its  oppression.  Men  sipped  and  munched  by 
the  fires .  Some  one  shouted, "Get ready,  men ! ' ' 
A  cannon  belched  and  bellowed  on  the  hill 
to  the  right,  then  another  and  another,  to  a 
passionate,  throbbing  roar. 

"Company  B,  forward!     Halt  here!" 

Men  poured  around  in  crowds  and  formed  in 
triple  lines.  A  shell  dropped  through  the  roof 
of  the  empty  barn  and  splintered  some  of  the 
boards  outward  with  its  burst. 

The  misty  sky  was  breaking  for  a  clear  day. 
Red  clouds  of  sunrise  streamed  like  pennants 
in  the  southwest.  A  man  in  the  front  line 
pitched  forward  and  lay  still. 

"Who's  that?" 

"I  do'  know." 

"Aiken,  I  guess." 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

"There,  now!  You  jabbed  me  twice.  Hold 
up  your  bayonet." 

Men  panted  as  if  they  had  already  been  run 
ning,  and  shifted  their  feet  nervously. 

"To-day's  my  birthday." 

"Going  to  celebrate  it  all  right." 

Several  laughed  in  high,  strained  cackles. 

"What  we  waiting  for,  cap'n?" 

"Don't  know.  Here.  Where's  your  car 
tridge-belt?  Stay  where  you  are.  Who's 
that  down?  Hand  up  his  belt." 

A  shout  came  up  the  line,  like  the  ripple 
of  a  shaken  rope.  They  were  suddenly  in 
the  woods.  Men  jumped  from  the  ground  and 
joined.  They  were  in  another  field  of  grass. 
One  heard  nothing  more  but  the  thump  of  his 
own  feet  and  the  singing  blood  in  his  ears; 
not  the  throb  of  the  artillery;  not  the  cry  of 
the  man  who  threw  up  his  arms  and  fell  against 
him ;  not  the  discharge  of  his  own  rifle,  though 
he  saw  the  smoke,  and  with  the  next  stride  his 
face  went  through  the  smoke. 

It  was  easy  running  in  the  grass,  the  long, 
level  fields,  a  fence  now  and  then,  a  stone 
wall;  but  then  came  a  slope  and  ploughed 
ground,  where  one  stumbled  and  fell  with  his 
face  in  the  brown  dirt,  and  fancied  himself 
153 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

hit  in  the  pit  of  the  stomach — only,  why  not 
dead? — saw  the  lines  gone  on;  got  up,  and 
ran  after  to  the  edge  of  a  field  of  standing  corn. 
A  fenced  road  was  beyond,  a  white  building 
with  a  central,  squat  chimney,  overhung  by 
heavy  woods  full  of  smoke.  The  lower  part  of 
the  smoke  bellied  forward,  jumped,  and  trem 
bled  at  the  edge. 

There  seemed  to  be  singularly  few  in  the 
running  line  now.  One  seemed,  in  fact,  to  be 
running  back  unaccountably,  down  the  slope 
and  the  ploughed  ground,  into  another  triple 
line,  a  surf  of  guns,  caps,  hot  faces,  and  in 
numerable  legs.  One  seemed  to  be  caught  up 
and  rushed  back,  ploughed  ground  and  slope, 
and  lined  up  at  the  top,  there  loading  and 
firing  across  the  corn.  Comparatively  it  was 
restful,  mechanical.  To  find  one's  cartridge- 
belt  empty  at  last  was  a  disappointment.  It 
seemed  to  imply  the  need  of  doing  something 
else,  something  new  and  untried.  The  smoke 
in  the  woods  ahead  was  thinner. 

"I  guess  Johnnie's  belt's  empty,  too." 

"I  guess  we're  going  in  to  see.     Here  we 

go!" 

They  ran  into  the  corn.     One  did  not  feel 
military — rather,  happy-go-lucky.     The  enemy 
154 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

behind  the  fence  and  in  the  road  all  ran  away 
to  the  woods,  where  there  seemed  nothing  much 
going  on.  It  looked  like  a  gaping  mouth,  the 
tree -trunks  like  black  teeth,  and  the  smoke 
from  the  blacker  throat  drifted  between  the 
teeth.  It  seemed  to  have  sucked  in  its  hot 
breath  and  red  tongue  —  to  be  waiting.  The 
fence  was  nearly  reached  when  it  let  go  a 
thousand  red  tongues,  a  voice  that  crashed,  a 
breath  that  was  hot  and  smoky,  that  jumped 
and  trembled.  One  dropped  behind  the  fence 
and  felt  for  cartridges. 

"Hi,  Jimmie!     Going  to  get  out  o'  this." 

"Close  up,  men.     Steady  there/' 

"That's  the  colonel." 

"Yep." 

"  Draw  them  off ,  now.     Steady.     Close  up." 

"Belts,  boys— look  for  belts." 

They  went  back  slowly,  stripping  the  car 
tridge-belts  from  men  fallen  between  the  corn- 
hills,  and  firing  at  the  smoke;  into  the  grass, 
at  length,  and  at  length  to  a  halt  in  cover  of 
broken  fence  and  line  of  weeds,  hard  by  the 
woods  they  had  left  at  dawn.  The  enemy 
spread  over  the  cornfield.  One  seemed  to 
resent  it  on  account  of  owning  that  cornfield 
with  a  more  than  ancestral  heritage.  There 
155 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

were  fresh  columns  coming  up  on  the  right. 
The  broken  brigades  in  the  grass  watched 
them  pass.  Their  line  mounted  and  stood 
still  on  the  ridge,  outlined  against  the  woods 
and  volleying  evenly.  Gaps  opened  and  closed. 
Some  one  said,  "They're  old  troops."  They 
went  into  the  corn  with  a  rush.  Whatever 
happened,  it  sounded  like  an  explosion  of  a 
half-hour's  length,  and  after  it  the  cornfield  and 
ploughed  land  were  empty,  except  for  the 
smoke,  and  the  wounded  and  dead,  some  hidden 
in  the  corn,  some  seen  against  the  brown  fallow. 
The  mouth  of  the  black  woods  gaped;  there 
were  its  black  teeth  and  drifting  breath.  Frag 
ments  of  the  columns  were  drawing  off  to  the 
covert  of  a  bulge  of  woods  on  the  right.  That 
part  of  the  battle  stood  still.  The  sun  was 
half-way  up  the  sky. 

"I  fought,  cap'n!     I  wasn't  afraid!" 

He  had  red,  downy  cheeks,  an  indistinct 
nose,  and  white  eyelashes. 

"Terrible  warrior  you  are,  Jimmie.  Your 
fingers  are  dripping." 

Jimmie  looked  at  his  hand.  A  little  red 
brook  ran  down  the  palm.  He  turned  white 
and  vsick. 

156 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

"Scratched,  Jirnmie.     Tie  it  up  for  him/' 

"I  never  seen  it,"  in  an  awed  voice. 

The  officer  went  on. 

"Get  your  breath.  See  your  guns  are  all 
right.  What's  that?" 

The  man  sat  staring  at  his  wrecked  and 
twisted  rifle.  Another  man  laughed  hoarsely. 

"Scrap-iron  he  picked  up." 

"'Tain't,  either  "—angrily.  "It's  my  rifle. 
Been  holding  it  all  day.  What's  gone  with  it? 
Something  hit  it." 

It  had  been  shattered  in  his  hands  by  a  flying 
missile. 

Some  one  rode  up  whom  the  captain  saluted. 

"How  many  left  here?" 

"About  forty." 

"Colonel  Morley?" 

"In  the  cornfield." 

"Major  Cutting?" 

"All  right,  sir,  over  there." 

"How  are  your  men?" 

"Pretty  fair,  sir.     They'll  go  in  again." 

A  mile  down  the  valley  the  fight  was  grow 
ing  hotter ;  a  ravine  was  full  of  smoke,  a  jam 
around  a  bridge,  a  line  of  blue  hills  beyond; 
up  nearer,  columns  were  massing  by  a  sunken 
road,  under  batteries  playing  from  opposite 
157 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

hills  across  the  creek ;  a  village  lay  to  the  west. 
The  sun  made  another  jump  up  the  sky.  The 
fields  around  were  empty,  except  for  the  lines 
in  covert  behind  the  fences,  and  here  and  there 
a  horseman  galloping,  here  and  there  a  horse 
but  no  horseman.  The  enemy  were  in  the 
corn  again,  shooting  intermittently.  Smoke 
drifted  up  and  turned  white  against  the  glisten 
ing  blue.  The  batteries  beyond  the  woods  on 
the  right  broke  out  again.  New  clouds  of 
smoke  floated  overhead  and  dimmed  the  sun. 
In  the  grass-fields  still  the  crouched  lines  wait 
ed  in  covert  of  weeds  and  fences.  Hours  that 
had  shot  past  in  the  charge,  the  struggle  and 
retreat,  now  stretched  like  sleepless  nights. 
Company  B  muttered  and  swore. 

"What's  the  use  of  waiting?" 

"Le'sgoin!" 

The  captain  and  lieutenant  lay  at  a  dis 
tance  on  the  grass.  Neither  of  them  answer 
ed.  Jimmie  felt  around  his  belt. 

"I  got  fifteen  cartridges/' 

"How's  your  scratch,  Jimmie?" 

"Ho,  I  don'  care  for  that.  Why  don'  we 
fight  some  more?" 

The  captain  said,  "  Do  you  hear  those  minie- 
balls?" 

158 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

The  lieutenant,  "What  of  them?" 

"  The  pitch,  of  course ;  they  go  from  E  flat  to 
F,  and  then  drop  to  D.  That's  a  very  pretty 
interval/' 

"  You've  got  an  ear !  They  do  sort  of  go  up 
and  down." 

"Le's  fight  some  more." 

"Oh,  Jimmie,  dry  up!" 

High  noon  over  the  corn,  and  the  woods,  and 
the  white  building  with  the  squat  chimney. 

Jimmie  again.     "Le's  fight  so —    Oh!" 

He  leaped,  flung  up  his  hands  and  fell — his 
rifle  clattering  behind  —  his  head  rolled  over 
once  and  lay  still.  The  man  next  him  lifted 
Jimmie's  head,  laid  it  down  gently  and  turned 
away.  Some  one  farther  along  said,  "  Pshaw !" 
One  still  farther,  "Who's  that?"— "Jimmie  "— 
"Oh!" 

The  captain  took  the  rifle  and  belt  with  fifteen 
counted  cartridges  and  walked  down  the  line 
to  the  man  with  the  shattered  rifle. 

"Here  you  are." 

Company  B  was  silent,  and  crouched  more 
closely.  The  sun  slipped  down  perceptibly 
and  burned  red  in  the  smoke.  The  throb  of 
the  unseen  guns  grew  Quicker.  From  woods' 
edge  and  cornfield,  from  covered  lines  in  the 
159 


"The    Debatable  Land" 

weeds  by  zigzag  fences,  the  smoke  was  living 
and  leaping,  Company  B  busy  and  interested. 
A  horseman  clattered  by.  "  Get  ready!" 

"Bayonets?" 

"  All  right.     Get  into  it  now!" 

Grass  -  fields,  fences,  and  ploughed  ground ; 
all  voices  of  the  battle-field  awake ;  yelling  and 
cheering,  crash  of  musketry,  crack  of  rifles, 
roar  of  guns,  shells  that  whooped  in  flight  and 
burst  into  a  score  of  individual  screams.  Be 
neath  all,  an  undertone,  a  rumbling,  grinding, 
splintering  sound,  the  organ  bass  of  the  field; 
into  the  corn,  that  rustled  as  before,  that  brushed 
in  turn  against  Northern  and  Southern  faces, 
that  sheltered  alike  from  the  slant  sun  all  still 
faces  in  the  furrows,  pale  and  ghastly  and 
grimed,  thick  together,  piled  dead  over  dead. 
Then  came  the  fence,  the  road,  the  squat-chim 
neyed  building,  the  gaping  woods  with  black 
teeth  and  white  breath  ;  and  Company  B, 
Reg.  Third,  went  into  the  wished -for  woods 
at  last,  with  empty  belts  and  point-on  bayonets  ; 
went  through  them,  and  saw  the  sun  beyond,  and 
broken  lines  running  across  open  fields.  Some 
thirty  of  them  came  back  and  sat  down  by  the 
white  building  gloomily.  The  captain  looked 
them  over  and  hummed.  "  The  Campbells  are 

160 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

coming — trala,  trala."  The  sun  dropped  low. 
The  throb  of  the  guns  down  the  valley  grew 
slower,  duller,  fainter.  Sanitary  men  with 
stretchers  pushed  to  and  fro  in  the  corn.  The 
woods  grew  dark,  the  fields  dusky.  Camp- 
fires  crackled  beside  the  road,  Company  B's 
by  the  white  building.  Tin  cups  were  poked 
into  the  coals.  Conversation  was  grumbling, 
fragmentary. 

"Jimmie's  shut  down  on  pretty  sudden." 

"  Jimmie !  There's  fifty  better  men  out  of  this 
company  dropped  in  their  tracks!  I  don't  see 
why  you're  so  cut  on  Jimmie/' 

"I  wished  it  was  some  one  else."  The 
speaker's  voice  broke.  "  He  was  such  a  damn 
fool." 

"Oh,  I  see." 

"Know  the  name  of  that  creek?" 

"No." 

"It's  the  Antietam." 

"  What  of  it?  It  ain't  the  Wyantenaug,  that's 
all  I  care." 

"And  this  thing's  a  Bunker  church." 

"  You  got  more  useless  information  'n  would 
set  up  a  college." 

"Pennsylvania   fellow  told    me    over  there 
Dunkers  are  sort  of  Dutch  Baptists." 
161 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

"Oh,  go  get  some  wood!" 

The  captain  was  in  the  road.  He  walked 
over  and  leaned  on  the  splintered  fence  and 
watched  the  red  lights  of  a  hundred  little  fires 
play  ghostly  games  with  black  shadows  in  the 
foliage  of  the  woods.  Men  were  pushing 
about  in  the  corn,  rustling  the  blades.  The 
stars  were  out,  the  young  moon  setting  slim 
and  lovely  with  the  old  moon  on  her  arm.  The 
distant  crackle  of  rifles,  belated  fragments  of 
the  battle,  seemed  futile,  isolated,  mistaken 
and  sad  in  the  light  of  the  drooping,  with 
drawing  moon. 

Fifty  feet  away  was  a  large  camp -fire  of 
fence  rails.  Of  the  men  about  it,  one  had  lean, 
long  limbs  and  face,  wore  a  long  black  coat 
and  black  slouched  hat,  and  talked  continuous 
ly  in  solemn,  flowing  bass.  The  rest  listened, 
absorbed.  Now  and  then  one  of  them  laughed. 

The  captain  drew  near.  The  lean  talker 
unfolded  his  legs  and  rose. 

"Gods!  The  anchorite?  Gentlemen,  who 
might  this  be?" 

"Cap'n  Windham,  Company  B,"  said  some 
one. 

"  He  hath  grown  a  beard !  In  complete  steel, 
revisits  the  glimpses  of  the  moon  !  A  Hotspur 
162 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

of  the  North,  will  kill  him  six  or  seven  dozen 
Confederates  before  breakfast  and  say,  'Fie 
on  this  quiet  life!'  Will  tootle  a  reed  no  more  ! 
Will  dive  into  the  bottom  of  the  deep,  pluck 
up  drowned  honor  by  the  locks,  and  call  it 
vanity!  Vat  for  a  fool  of  a  musician!" 

"How  are  you,  Jack?" 

"  A  war  correspondent  I,  John  Roland  Haver 
ing,  who  will  celebrate  you,  a  Homer  to  Achilles, 
who  wants  to  know  for  his  invocation  how  you 
happen  not  to  be  dead/' 

They  locked  arms  and  sauntered  along  the 
road  in  leisurely  pursuit  of  the  moon. 

163 


Chapter  XIII 

In  Which  Appears  a  General  of  Division,  and  One  of 
"the  Brethren." 

IF  Gard  entered  the  war,  as  he  claimed,  in 
the  theory  of  a  spiritual  adventure,  it  must  be 
hinted  that  he  had  sometimes  lost  sight  of  his 
theory.  Outside  events  had  shown  a  tendency 
to  usurp  and  absorb  in  the  process  of  the  hap 
pening.  It  was  not  so  noticeable  during  the 
first  nine  months.  He  marched,  drilled,  felt 
the  rain  and  the  cold  wind  at  night  in  the  open, 
heard  the  enemy's  guns,  saw  bleeding  men 
carried  by  from  the  distant  field,  and  shared 
in  what  was  called  "the  defence  of  Washing 
ton/'  a  matter  that  did  not  seem  difficult  or 
exciting  beyond  reason.  He  was  made  a 
sergeant — a  purely  outside  event.  There  was 
leisure  to  watch  the  scene,  to  keep  one's  poise, 
to  experiment  with  existence.  If  at  times  his 
old  sense  of  separateness,  of  isolation  among 
objects,  scenes,  and  persons  whose  importance 
to  him  was  only  in  their  inner  effect  upon  him 
164 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

— if  this  sense  at  times  seemed  less  vivid  than 
before,  and  the  movements  of  men  in  masses, 
the  common  enthusiasms,  made  him  feel  that 
his  solitary  journeying  was  in  some  mystical 
way  accompanied  by  watching  myriads  with 
the  same  forward  step  and  shadowy  goal,  it 
was  rather  a  passing,  a  recurrent  sensation. 

But  with  the  middle  of  spring  came  three 
months  of  storm  and  stress  in  the  Virginia 
peninsula.  He  came  out  of  the  ranks  by 
reason  of  some  inscrutable  opinion  of  him  con 
ceived  and  reported  to  authorities — something 
connected  with  an  expedition  through  a  swamp 
— was  promoted  because  there  were  no  other 
officers  to  speak  of  in  the  company  when  the 
army  reached  its  new  base  at  last  on  the  James 
River. 

He  looked  back  curiously  now  to  the  tumult 
of  those  weeks,  a  period  when  he  could  not 
remember  to  have  remembered  himself,  a  long 
night  of  irrelevant  dreams,  the  sense  of  identit}7 
lost  in  the  dull  confusion,  himself  going  and 
coming,  ordering  and  obeying,  seeing  dif 
ficulties  and  finding  solutions  with  a  set  of 
surface  faculties,  the  soul  within  him  torpid, 
at  least  taciturn.  The  experience  had  left 
him  with  a  sense  of  distaste  and  humiliation, 

165 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

with  a  certain  troubled  doubt.  Was  a  man  cap 
tain  of  himself,  if  he  could  be  seized,  stunned, 
drowned  in  circumstance,  lost  like  a  drop  of 
water  in  a  flood,  rendered  indistinct  to  his  own 
consciousness  from  the  flowing,  pouring  mass 
around  him? 

Gard  did  not  suppose  himself  to  be  unique. 
He  supposed  other  men  had  similar  paths  to 
walk  in,  pilgrim  fashion;  that  every  man 
owned  merely  himself  and  his  destiny,  his 
issue  in  the  nature  of  things  his  own;  that  to 
every  man  there  was  but  one  great  distinction, 
it  lying  between  himself  and  what  was  not 
himself.  In  his  own  age,  at  least,  he  supposed 
it  a  growing  tendency  for  men  to  look  within 
their  own  souls  for  the  infinite  which  they  could 
not  find  without. 

There  was  no  doubt  the  peninsular  cam 
paign  had  been  an  experience  affecting  him 
profoundly.  It  had  shown  him  what  a  pit  of 
danger  lay  on  the  side  of  such  absorption; 
that  to  plunge  into  affairs  so  intense,  so  phys 
ical,  so  powerful  in  their  sweep  and  pull,  was 
for  the  individualist  numbing,  miasmic,  cloud 
ing  the  eye  whose  function  should  be  to  see 
one  path  clearly.  It  had  given  him  a  new 
sense  and  a  certain  dread  of  the  strength  of 
166 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

what  lay  on  the  other  side  of  that  distinction 
between  himself  and  the  not  himself.  It  had 
left  in  him,  he  fancied,  a  kind  of  sediment,  an 
element  in  respect  to  which  it  became  illustrated 
that  what  a  man  has  experienced  is  a  part  of 
him.  It  had  made  him  perhaps  more  con 
sciously  watchful  of  his  poise,  his  mental 
erectness  and  control.  But  the  main  result 
so  far  had  been  that  sense  of  uncertainty  and 
troubled  doubt,  as  if  he  had  lost  the  trail,  as 
if  much  had  grown  dim  that  was  once  definite 
and  guiding.  Mavering's  appearance  seemed  to 
suggest  something,  a  clew  or  an  omen.  Jack, 
at  least,  was  individual,  nomadic,  and  distinct. 
He  never  let  his  surroundings  grow  into  him. 

Thursday,  the  day  after  the  battle,  the  hills, 
woods,  and  fields  were  quiet  except  for  stray 
picket  shooting.  The  two  armies  could  feel 
each  other.  Why  they  lay  all  day  so  near,  so 
quiet,  was  no  business  of  cither's  subordinate 
atoms.  Gard  felt  that  he  but  barely  cared, 
if  no  more  was  asked  of  him  and  his  remnant 
of  thirty  than  to  stay  where  they  were.  No 
doubt  they  also  serve  who  wait.  He  could 
stretch  in  the  sunlight,  listen  to  Mavering's 
home  despatches,  choice,  flowing,  vehement, 
and  supply  him  with  technical  language. 
167 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

Farmers  drove  in  on  the  road  during  the 
day,  and  distributed  apples  from  their  wagons, 
or  peddled  home-made  bread.  A  number  of 
them  wore  singular,  broad  -  brimmed  hats, 
smooth  hair,  long,  and  parted  in  the  middle, 
shaven  lips  and  long  beards  below,  and  some 
spoke  broken  English  with  an  odd,  German 
dialect.  They  were  said  to  be  the  Dunkers  of 
the  squat  -  chimneyed  church,  now  spotted 
with  bullet  -  holes,  one  casement  blown  in. 
To  Gard  they  seemed  to  illustrate  grimly  the 
shaping  power  of  externals,  these  men  whose 
mouths  were  set  to  the  line  of  their  wide  hats, 
hair  plastered  smoothly  to  mark  the  even  tenor 
of  their  peace.  They  called  themselves  "The 
Brethren/'  There  was  something  in  their 
faces  at  once  a  reminder  of  and  a  contrast  to 
the  faces  he  remembered  in  the  Brotherhood  of 
Consolation. 

The  camp-fires  flickered  once  more  at  night 
against  the  black  foliage. 

Company  B,  in  a  new  manner,  admired  its 
captain  and  the  extraordinary  correspondent, 
while  they  recited  Brutus  and  Cassius  with 
mellow  mouthings,  and  after  gave  impromptu 
dialogues  between  a  Dunker  advocating  the 
use  of  apples  with  Biblical  extracts,  and  the 
168 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

general  of  division,  explosive,  impatient,  drop 
ping  oaths  like  solid  round  shot.  Other  men 
left  their  own  camp-fires  and  crowded  the  road. 
Some  officers  sat  on  the  fence  and  applauded. 
The  distant  crack  of  the  pickets'  rifles  was 
sometimes  heard,  stabbing  blindly  at  the  night. 
The  stars  were  brilliant  and  the  slim  moon 
was  in  the  south. 

Friday  morning  it  was  rumored  that  the 
enemy  had  slipped  away  in  the  night,  and 
gone  across  the  Potomac  again;  that  the  gen 
eral  of  division  had  been  heard  putting  violent 
terms  to  the  name  of  his  chief  for  committing 
all  the  sins  of  omission  which  man  could  com 
mit,  seeing  his  aides'  enjoyment  of  which  lan 
guage  he  had  reddened  and  set  his  grim  mouth. 
The  fields  beyond  the  wood,  at  least,  were 
empty,  and  the  village  among  the  hills.  One 
could  walk  abroad  without  being  shot  at  from 
the  bushes  where  those  scarlet  berries  grew. 

The  crippled  Third,  with  its  odds  and  ends 
of  companies,  moved  as  far  as  the  village,  now 
turned  a  bustling  hospital,  and  heard  big  guns 
booming  again  south  of  the  Potomac.  There 
it  was  that  Havering  wrote  that  sketch  of  red 
death  and  amputation  which  his  paper  ex 
purgated  before  publishing,  to  Mavering's 

169 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

disgust.  "  As  fine  a  bit  of  realism  as  was  ever 
done!  And  look  at  it,  butchered  to  make  a 
civilian  holiday!"  He  read  the  first  draft  to 
Gard. 

"I'll  trade  my  job  for  yours,  Jack." 

"Quite  the  contrary" — Havering  altered  an 
adjective  in  his  copy — "you  will  not." 

A  messenger  rode  into  the  camp  of  the  crip 
pled  Third  with  a  led  horse. 

"Captain  Windham?" 

"Here." 

"  Order  of ;  relieved  indefinitely.     Will 

take  this  horse — report  at  division  headquar 
ters,"  and  the  messenger  clattered  away.  Mav- 
ering  jumped  to  his  feet. 

"I'll  trade  you." 

"Quite  the  contrary,  you  will  not." 

Havering  grumbled  and  went  back  to  his 
copy. 

"It's  that  elegant  comedy  last  night.     Poor 
boy!     Ruined!     Ruined!" 

Gard  rode  down  the  road  that  led  from  the 
village  to  the  creek.  The  centre  of  Wednes 
day's  fight  had  been  here,  but  the  fighting 
must  have  been  mainly  on  the  wings.  There 
were  signs  of  heavy  artillery  work,  but  little 
else.  Beyond  the  bridge  was  a  large  house 
170 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

on  the  hill,  with  a  white  picket  fence  around  it. 
From  the  hill  he  could  look  up  the  winding 
creek,  and  see  the  bluffs,  the  sloped  fields 
and  ploughed  ground  of  Wednesday's  charges 
and  retreats,  the  Dunker  church  against  the 
woods.  Some  men  in  front  of  the  house  directed 
him  to  take  the  right  fork  of  the  road.  The 
sun  was  low,  the  day-moon  like  a  white  scallop 
of  cloud.  He  found  the  headquarters  a  half- 
mile  beyond,  a  small  brick  house,  distinguished 
by  the  number  of  saddled  horses  fastened  at 
the  fence,  and  within  the  general,  a  familiar 
figure  enough,  with  his  red  face  and  white 
whiskers,  a  hot-tempered  man  and  well  be 
loved,  now  puffing  a  cigar  and  quite  self-con 
trolled. 

"Captain  Windham." 

"Gentlemen!"  cried  the  general,  "will  you 
allow  me — I  want  to  see  this  man, "and  they 
were  presently  alone. 

The  general  leaned  back  and  looked  at  Gard 
critically.  He  began: 

"  Captain  Windham — mm  —  these  theatrical 
performances  by  officers  for  the  entertainment 
of  privates — umm — this  disgraceful  mimicry  of 
— mm — myself — this  disrespect  leading  to  in 
subordination — ' ' 

171 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir.  It  was  not  in 
tended — '* 

"  I  was  about  to  say/'  thundered  the  general, 
"when  you  interrupted  me,  that  I  don't  believe 
the  commander-in-chief  would  approve.  Per 
sonally,  Fd  have  given  something  to  be  there. 
I  have  about  me,  I  believe,  another  cigar. 
Sit  down." 

He  spoke  in  a  jerky  way,  coming  down  on 
selected  words  with  emphasis. 

"  I  have  need  of  a  particular  kind  of  a  man. 
It  occurs  to  me  3^011  may  be  that  kind — mm 
— a  certain  variety,  perhaps,  of  talent.  It's 
a  bit  of  secret  service.  Well,  now  look  here. 
It  is  this.  The  War  Department  wants  private 
information  about  the  actual  effective  numbers 

—  if  possible  —  and   condition,   of  the   enemy 

—  at    present.      I   will    tell    you   more.      The 
estimates  that  come  to  it  from  the  commander- 
in-chief    are — I    quote    the    word — 'contradic 
tory.'     It  is  suspected  that  those  estimates  de 
pend — I  still  quote — 'on  the  impression  that 
gentleman  wishes  to  make  on  the  department 
or  the  public/     The  suspicion  may  be  wrong; 
or  it  may  be  that  a  change  is  going  to  be  made 
in  commanders ;  or,  at  any  rate,  '  before  issuing 
a  definite  order  to  the  present  commander' — 

172 


"The     Debatable    Land" 

it  needs  information  independent  of  the  regular 
source.  Do  you  understand?" 

"So  far  as  you've  gone,  sir." 

"  Oh— mm— exactly.  That's  right.  No  doubt 
it  is  procuring  other  sources.  That's  no  busi 
ness  of  ours.  I've  been  asked  —  confiden 
tially —  to  furnish  one  source  —  mm —  The 
impersonation  of  Dunker  elders  and  generals 
of  divisions  implies — mm — also  I  know  your 
record — mm —  Captain  Windham,  I  am  at  the 
present  moment  guilty  of  insubordination  and 
treachery  to  my  superior  officer.  I  am  also 
giving  away  what  amounts  perhaps  to  a  state 
secret.  I  am  doing  so — for  the  reason — that 
your  discretion  must  be  relied  on,  anyway, 
and  you  cannot  understand  too  clearly  the 
point  to  be  gained.  This  information  must 
reach  either  me,  or  the  department  directly — 
preferably  the  latter — and  no  one  else.  You 
see  the  point?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Preferably  the  latter.  I  needn't  be  con 
nected  with  it  hereafter — would  rather  not  be." 

"I  see." 

"Very  good.  This  information  should  be 
had  as  soon  as  possible.  In  case  you  have  to 
send  a  message,  this  paper  contains  a  code, 
173 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

simple  enough.  The  meaning  depends  on 
the  position  of  the  words.  You  can  apparently 
mean  anything  you  choose.  Learn,  and  de 
stroy  paper.  So  much  for  that.  Your  name 
will  be  known  at  the  department.  You  are 
at  your  own  disposition  till  the  thing  is  done. 
There  are  no  directions.  Now — one  moment 
— this  map.  Lee  and  Longstreet  are  prob 
ably  here.  Somebody  is,  anyway.  Jackson 
is  God  knows  where — possibly  there.  If  so, 
he'll  be  somewhere  else  to-morrow.  Here's 
your  pass.  Any  questions?" 

"No,  sir." 

"That's  all,  then.  You  may  go — mm — 
Captain  Windham — some  time  I  should  like  to 
see  the  impersonation  of  a  general  of  division 
in  a  state  of  excitement.  Hem!  hem!  Good- 
day,  sir." 

Gard  galloped  through  the  little  village  in 
the  dusk,  looking  for  Mavering,  and  found  the 
fields  beyond  empty.  The  brigade  was  gone, 
the  Third  gone  with  it. 

"I  can't  chase  after  him  all  night,"  he 
thought,  impatiently.  "Why  doesn't  he  stay 
where  he'd  be  useful?" 

He  caught  sight  of  a  horse  fastened  to  a 
maple-tree  up  the  road. 
T74 


"The     Debatable    Land" 

Havering  lay  on  his  back  under  the  maple, 
smoking. 

"Get  up.     Come  along/' 

"This  cigar  is  the  worst — " 

"Get  on  your  horse.     I  want  you." 

"What  do  I  care  what  you  want?  I  was 
about  to  say,  this  cigar  is  the — " 

"Throw  it  away,  then/' 

Havering  unfolded  his  legs  and  mounted, 
grumbling. 

"  You're  the  blankedest,  most  egotistic  ancho 
rite  that  ever  petted  his  soul,  not  to  say  dosed 
it  allopathically  with  wars  and  red  rebellions. 
One  question :  Is  there  any  copy  in  this?" 

"Not  a  word/' 

"Just  what  I  thought.  Wherever  a  man 
goes  he  finds  selfishness." 

They  turned  into  the  northern  road,  clattered 
past  the  cornfield  and  the  church.  Gard  con 
tinued  :  "  One  of  those  Dunker  farmers  lives  up 
here  half  a  mile.  I  want  his  clothes,  his  ex 
pression,  and  his  language,  and  his  theology 
—the  whole  outfit." 

"Going  to  steal  his  most  intimate  proper 
ties.  Blanked  immoral  thing  to  do.  All  right, 
go  on." 

"About  copy.  Anything  that  goes  south 
175 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

of  the  Potomac  will  be  apt  to  mean  a  rope  for 
me,  and  New  York  papers  go  south  of  the 
Potomac/' 

"Egotistic  still,  but  perspicuous.     I  see/' 

"  It's  between  me  and  you  and  the  Bunker/' 

"And  that's  a  pretty  combination!" 

"Not  a  sign,  Jack." 

"Not  a  misplaced  comma,  not  an  agitated 
phrase  shall  betray  the  mystery  of  this  night. 
Now,  then.  Why?" 

"  Oh,  you!     You'll  have  to  make  me  up." 

"And  the  Bunker?" 

"  They're  all  antuslave  y  and  non-comba 
tant.  Besides,  I  picked  an  acquaintance  with 
this  one  yesterday." 

The  small,  plain,  whitewashed  house,  with  its 
whitewashed  barn,  stood  close  to  the  road  and 
shining  in  the  moonlit  dusk.  An  elderly  man, 
with  smooth,  gray  hair  falling  to  his  collar, 
shaven  lips,  and  spade-shaped  beard,  came  to 
the  door  and  stood  there,  mild,  quiet,  round- 
shouldered. 

"Can  we  put  up  our  horses  here  and  pass 
the  night?" 

He  nodded  and  turned  back  into  the  room 
without  speaking,  but  left  the  door  open. 

They  spent  the  evening  talking  with  him, 
176 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

studying  the  while  his  outward  make-up,  his 
manner  and  language,  critically.  He  had  a 
certain  gentle  suggestiveness  of  his  own,  and 
before  they  parted  for  the  night  brought  out  a 
pair  of  saddle-bags  and  a  large  bundle  of  printed 
sheets. 

"  De  is  tracts/'  he  said,  gently,  "  of  religion/' 

"  Good, ' '  said  Havering.  "  An  ungodly  army, 
no  doubt.  Oh,  I  beg  pardon'/' 

"De  is  not  of  de  doctrine  of  the  bruderen 
only.  De  is  Christian/' 

"Oh,  well,  Captain  Windham  was  bred  a 
Catholic.  He'll  distribute  them,  and  read  some 
himself." 

The  quiet  elder  seemed  to  have  taken  a  shy 
liking  for  Gard.  He  touched  him  softly  on 
the  back  of  the  hand. 

"I  hope  you  are  a  good  man.  I  hope  you 
are  not  to  die  in  what  you  do." 

At  daybreak  they  rode  away  westward, 
making  a  wide  circuit  of  the  village,  Gard  with 
his  lips  shaven,  hair  parted  and  plastered  down, 
and  wearing  the  gentle  old  brother's  waist 
coat  that  buttoned  to  the  throat,  his  dingy 
black  coat  and  wide-brimmed  hat.  His  saddle 
was  primitive,  his  bridle-bit  rusty.  Mavering's 
experienced  eye  judged  that  he  looked  his 
177 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

part.  Even  the  whiteness  of  his  lips,  where 
the  razor  had  gone,  added  to  the  impression 
of  calm  and  austere  withdrawal.  Was  it 
some  lingering  touch  of  the  monastery?  One 
does  not  live  without  result  during  the  forma 
tive  years,  secluded  between  cool,  white  walls, 
among  unworldly  lives.  Havering  called  him 
"the  anchorite/7  and  swore  the  phrase  still 
truthful. 

A  glimpse  of  the  Potomac  between  the  hills  ; 
a  troop  of  Union  cavalry  breaking  camp  in  a 
meadow;  clank  and  rattle  of  side-arms;  men 
gathering  and  packing  kit;  men  sitting  list 
lessly  in  their  saddles;  a  mounted  officer  in 
the  middle  of  the  road,  looking  down  towards 
the  Potomac  —  large,  square  -  shouldered,  and 
massive.  He  turned  in  his  saddle. 

"Hold  on  here!     Halt!" 

Gard  pulled  up  and  looked  at  him  under 
drooped  eyelids. 

Havering  pushed  between. 

"Without  circumlocution,  Captain  Hap, 
you're  precisely  what  I'm  looking  for.  Caval 
ry's  the  thing  for  a  correspondent.  I  have  an 
unsubstantial  vision  I  used  to  know  you  in 
Hamilton/' 

"That's  all  right.     Who's  this?" 
178 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

"Oh,  that's  a  Bunker  brother.  Got  some 
blanked  tracts  in  his  saddle-bags.  Let  me 
join  you?" 

"Is — is  he?"  His  horse  blocked  the  road 
aggressively.  He  kept  his  eyes  on  Gard. 

"Well" — Havering  turned  and  surveyed 
the  "make-up"  critically,  complacently  —  "I 
slept  with  him  at  his  old  man's  last  night. 
If  a  twenty-minute  Dutch  prayer  is  any  proof, 
he's  still  in  the  faith  of  his  fathers.  I'm  leav 
ing  you  here,  brother." 

Gard  nodded,  rode  into  the  ditch  with  a  face 
conscientiously  blank,  mild,  non-combatant, 
and  passed  the  obstacle.  Morgan  watched  him 
ambling  leisurely  away  in  the  sunlight  and 
the  dust.  Havering  waited  some  time. 

"Look  here,  captain.  Did  I  understand 
you  laconically  to  insinuate  I  might  accom 
pany  and  chronicle  your  glories?" 

Morgan  wheeled  his  horse  slowly. 

"I  guess  so.     Yes,  you  may." 

The  road  went  around  a  sandy  hummock 
and  disappeared.  Gard  did  not  look  back. 
Beyond  the  strip  of  the  Potomac  the  Virginia 
hills  were  blue  and  cool  and  peaceful. 

Mavering  meditated  a  disclosure.  Still,  wheth 
er  Morgan  had  recognized  Gard,  or  for  a  time 
179 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

had  suspected  it  was  he,  or  had  only  acted  on 
constitutional  aggressiveness,  it  did  not  seem 
likely  in  any  case  that  he  would  chatter  about 
the  matter.  He  could  hold  his  tongue  with 
out  being  warned.  "It's  none  of  my  funeral/' 
Gard  had  precisely  stated  what  he  wanted. 
Havering  remarked: 

"  That  Bunker  had  a  pass,  if  you'd  asked  for  it 
— permit  to  scatter  his  tracts  wherever  he  liked." 

But  Morgan  did  not  comment.  Havering 
thought  him  likely  to  be  dull  company,  and  set 
himself  to  making  other  acquaintance  and 
finding  entertainment  with  experienced  skill. 

The  troop  filed  out,  formed  loosely,  and 
clattered  south.  It  occurred  to  Havering  that 
they  might  overtake  Gard.  Down  through 
the  narrow  valleys  they  came  at  length  to  the 
willow-fringed  bank  of  the  river,  but  he  saw 
the  broad-brimmed  hat  nowhere.  It  seemed  to 
have  vanished  from  the  earth.  Havering  con 
cluded  his  connection  with  it  over.  New 
pastures  of  interest  were  before  him.  The 
nomad  owns  no  real  estate  in  any  one  else. 
His  soul  knows  not  title  or  tenure.  He  will  be 
folding  his  tent  at  daybreak  and  leaving  the 
night's  oasis,  and  the  sands  drift  over  his 
footprints. 

180 


Chapter   XIV 

In    which    Havering    Concludes  that    Cavalry   Officers 
as  a  Class  Are  Eccentric  and  Deep 

THE  war  suited  Morgan.  It  was  action  in 
simple  terms  of  purpose  and  accomplishment. 
It  was  sensible  and  genuine.  There  no  man's 
complicated  trivial  tastes  and  instincts  needed 
to  be  bothered  about;  he  carried  them  at  his 
own  risk  and  exercise;  they  were  not  in  the 
army  lists.  Orders  were  not  disguised  in 
requests  and  reasons.  The  gradations  and 
shades,  the  cautions  and  compunctions,  the 
ten  thousand  odds  and  ends  of  ten  thousand 
years'  accumulation  for  the  most  part  were  swept 
away  in  bulk.  Men  battled  with  men  and  threw 
off  their  shamming  benevolences,  showed  what 
they  were,  and  enjoyed  themselves  in  the  burly 
lust  of  struggle.  The  life  satisfied  at  least 
half  of  him  to  completion. 

A  fortnight  before  the  late  battle  he  had  seen 
Helen  on  the  steps  of  the  wooden  warehouse, 
that  they  used  as  a  hospital  and  filled  from 
181 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

wall  to  wall  with  blanketed  cots.  She  had 
looked  pale,  tired,  and  smiling.  After  a  moment 
she  had  flushed  and  broken  away  angrily. 
And  that  night  he  had  lain  twenty  miles  off 
with  his  troop  in  the  open,  a  lot  of  blinking, 
idiotic  stars  over  him,  and  could  not  sleep,  and 
damned  in  disciplined  order  the  ways  of  wom 
an  and  the  impalpable  barriers  around  them 
—  Thaddeus  Bourn,  for  keeping  his  skinny 
corpse  unburied  beyond  the  limit  of  reason  or 
utility;  and  Gard  Windham  to  the  discomfort 
of  the  blistered  stars. 

There  appeared  to  be  another  part  of  him 
unsatisfied — hungry,  rather,  and  hot  on  the 
scent. 

Had  he  not  picked  out  Nellie  long  ago  for 
her  pluck  and  sense,  and  a  certain  tingling  chal 
lenge  in  her — a  girl  fit  for  his  hand  to  hold? 
She  suited  him,  fitted  one  part  as  a  cavalry 
raid  fitted  another.  Very  well.  He  would  take 
her.  Any  one  that  stood  in  the  way  would 
be  hurt,  very  likely ;  at  any  rate,  taught  better. 
The  squire  and  Thaddeus  Bourn  might  be  as 
futile  as  they  chose,  it  being  no  business  of  his. 
They  had  had  their  day.  Let  them  keep 
out  of  the  path  of  men  who  had  still  to  live. 
It  was  no  great  matter  what  they  did.  But 
182 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

when  it  came  to  Nell's  mooning  about  the 
organ-player,  with  his  theories  and  whining 
tunes,  and  getting  sick  in  hospitals —  She 
said  that  she  hadn't  seen  him  since  winter, 
which  wasn't  likely.  She  had  turned  red,  and 
broken  away  at  that.  Hospital  nurse!  What 
a  fool  thing  for  Nell  to  do !  Mrs.  Havering  was 
with  her,  and  Jack  Havering  travelled  with 
Windham.  The  Haverings  might  have  made 
up.  Ten  to  one  there  was  a  game  on,  and 
they  fancied  Horgan  Hap  was  that  kind  of  a 
fool. 

The  war  filled  a  man's  hands.  Morgan 
felt  that  the  germ  of  his  own  career  lay  in  these 
days,  and  other  business  ought  to  wait  if  it 
could.  Windham  must  be  off  scouting  in  that 
Dunker  outfit,  and  might  by  good  luck  get 
himself  hung,  only  he  was  too  clever. 

Horgan  turned  in  his  saddle  and  looked  back 
for  Havering,  who  rode  in  the  middle  of  the 
cantering  troop,  and  seemed  to  enjoy  himself. 

On  Saturday,  the  end  of  the  week  after  An- 
tietam,  the  troop  rode  westward  along  the  line 
of  a  railroad.  The  Confederates  had  been  at 
it,  some  of  them  within  a  day  or  two,  for  the 
burned  ties  were  still  smoking.  They  had  bent 

183 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

the  rails  by  heating  them  in  the  middle  and 
twisting  them  around  the  trees.  At  regular 
intervals  were  black  circles  of  the  fires  and 
charred  ends  of  ties.  It  was  too  systematic 
for  guerillas. 

"There/'  said  a  lieutenant  to  Mavering, 
"you  can  write  your  papers  there  are  twenty 
or  thirty  miles  of  this,  all  done  under  the  nose 
of  the  chief." 

"  A  vigilant,  aggressive  man,  the  latter,  I  in 
fer,  is  your  matured  opinion/'  said  Mavering; 
and  the  lieutenant  replied,  dryly,  "  Something 
like  that." 

The  sandy  road-bed  curved  through  woods 
that  must  have  been  straggling  and  discouraged 
in  their  green  days,  and  now  were  black  and 
smoking,  for  the  abandoned  fires  had  spread. 
The  wind  mourned  through  the  desolation, 
and  blew  thin  veils  and  streamers  of  smoke 
overhead. 

"And  no  doubt  Captain  Map's  opinion 
coincides  with  3^ours  in  favor  of  activity  and 
vigilance." 

"  He's  a  hot-and-cool  man  to  ride  with.  You 
might  write  that  we're  on  a  line  which  was 
burned  through  yesterday  or  the  day  before, 
and  just  now  a  lot  of  hostile  cavalry  are  cavort- 

184 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

ing  round  the  neighborhood  somewhere,  likely 
to  drop  on  us  any  moment.  We're  out  to  find 
about  this  line  and  that  cavalry,  and  get  back 
if  we  can/' 

"I  notice — a  point  that  strikes  an  artist  in 
realistic  description  inevitably — that  Captain 
Map  is  calmly  reading  something  as  he  rides. 
Such  things  illustrate/' 

"His  nerve?    Oh,  that's  all  right/' 

"But  the  artist's  imagination  proceeds. 
Reading  what?  A  newspaper?  No,  a  written 
sheet,  which  the  wind  blows  about  in  his 
hands.  Perhaps  instructions — or,  better,  a  love 
letter." 

"Likely  enough." 

"They  do  more  than  illustrate.  They  fill 
in  the  foreground  with  humanity  against  the 
background  of  nature  and  event.  You  are 
an  army  officer,  lieutenant,  unlessoned,  unin 
spired,  unreflective,  and  may  take  the  word  of 
one  old  in  variety,  that  the  gist  of  life  lies  in 
men  and  women  rather  than  in  event,  and  that 
men  and  women  are  more  worthy  of  considera 
tion  in  persons  than  in  masses.  The  play  is 
played  in  the  foreground,  and  there  is  the  plot 
and  the  crisis  and  the  solution ;  there  the  action 
lies;  practicable  scenery  left  and  right,  prac- 

185 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

ticable  mob  of  courtiers,  soldiers,  or  peasants 
in  the  rear — and — " 

Morgan  pulled  in  his  horse  and  flung  up  his 
hand,  the  white  paper  fluttering  in  it.  The 
troop  halted  short,  plunging  and  scattering 
sand. 

"Enter/'  observed  Mavering,  "a  practicable 
enemy,  lieutenant,  from  a  practicable  wood." 

A  quarter  of  a  mile  away  the  sandy  road-bed 
curved  and  disappeared.  A  large  body  of 
cavalry  swung  around  it.  Morgan  shaded  his 
eyes  with  his  hand  and  the  fluttering  paper. 
The  troops  sat  stiff  and  intent.  He  shouted 
and  wheeled  his  horse. 

"Left  wheel!     Hard!" 

Whirl,  plunge,  and  shout.  Mavering's  horse 
slipped  on  the  sand -bank,  lost  footing,  and 
fell  headlong  into  the  ditch.  Mavering  struck 
the  opposite  bank  in  a  heap,  unlimbered,  and 
came  down  with  his  feet  across  the  horse's  neck. 
He  seized  the  bridle,  jumped,  and  tugged.  The 
troop  was  two  hundred  feet  away,  the  squadron 
a  thousand.  A  white  paper,  blown  by  the 
wind,  danced  and  twinkled  along  in  the  sand. 
He  tugged  harder,  leaning  forward,  and  caught 
the  paper,  thinking,  "That's  Map's  love-let 
ter,"  heaved  and  shouted.  The  horse  half  rose ; 
186 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

something  went  "  thud  "  in  his  neck;  he  scream 
ed  and  dropped  again.  Another  bullet  whined 
by  Mavering's  ear.  He  dropped  the  bridle — 
"I'm  done,  then"  —  and  saw  Morgan  two 
hundred  feet  away,  his  horse  halted  and  half 
turned,  lifting  his  revolver  again.  Havering 
dove  down  the  sand,  lay  still  in  the  ditch,  and 
heard  the  third  bullet  whine  close  by,  an  inch 
from  his  ear,  then  the  swift  flight  of  Morgan's 
horse  and  the  coming  thunder  of  the  squadron. 

"Blanked  if  I  don't  read  his  blanked  letter! 
What  in —  'Pass  man  wearing  loose  black 
clothes,  broad,  stiff -brimmed  hat,  shaven  lips, 
black  beard,  smooth  hair,  of  sect  called  Bun 
kers,  carrying  saddle-bags,  riding  bay  horse 
with  white  forefoot,  through  all  Union  lines — 
bears  important  information,  give  all  facilities, 
forward  to  Washington,  signed — '  And  no 
signature." 

But  the  rattle  and  roar  were  at  hand,  and  the 
sense  of  a  thousand  horsemen  about  to  charge 
into  the  small  of  his  back.  He  thought,  "  I'll 
be  searched  in  a  minute,"  swept  a  handful  of 
sand  over  the  paper,  clambered  up  the  bank 
and  sat  on  the  burned  turf  above,  hugging  his 
angular  knees.  The  head  horseman  pulled 
to  the  right  and  shouted, 
187 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

"Follow  'em  half  a  mile,  Gary,  and  wait 
there/' 

The  bulk  of  the  squadron  swept  on. 

"Search  that  man,  you  there!  Pull  that 
paper  out  of  the  sand/' 

Havering  groaned  disgustedly.  Two  men 
were  up  the  bank,  feeling  him  all  over  with 
skilled  precision.  The  colonel  pulled  his  chin- 
whisker  over  the  mysterious  writing.  "  What's 
all  this?"  Mavering  sat  down  again  and 
brushed  the  sand  from  his  trousers  and  long 
black  coat-tails.  His  hat  lay  in  the  ditch. 
The  troop  remaining  gathered  in  a  semicircle, 
the  colonel  and  Mavering  in  the  centre,  with 
ditch  and  the  prostrate  kicking  horse  between, 
practicable  scenery  of  a  September  sky  and 
burned  woods  around. 

"I  don't  know,  colonel,"  said  Mavering,  in 
solemn  and  rhythmic  bass,  "  but  I  judge  it's  a 
job  put  up  on  you  by  the  recondite  and 
taciturn  captain  of  the  troop  lately  departed. 
He  appeared  to  drop  it  with  a  policy  and 
plugged  at  me  with  a  revolver  when  I  picked 
it  up." 

"  You  hid  it,  sir  "—sharply. 

"So  I  did.  The  truth  is  ever  beautiful. 
He  plugged  my  horse.  Supposing  he  meant 
188 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

that  for  you,  I'm  not  backing  his  game  to-day. 
It's  too  deep  for  me,  anyhow/' 

A  young  officer  broke  in  at  the  colonel's 
elbow. 

"Bunker?  We  passed  that  man  Monday 
up  by  the  river,  colonel.  He  was  scattering 
tracts." 

"Did?  Here,  then —  Martinsburg,  or  further 
up !  Go  hard.  Now,  then,  who  are  you?" 

"  Correspondent.  You've  got  my  credentials 
with  the  rest  of  the  loot,  of  which  you  might 
lend  me  a  dollar  and  a  half  and  return  the  note 
book  containing  a  half-written  but  masterly 
article  on — " 

"Note-book?  Article?  Very  good.  Do  for 
a  Richmond  paper.  Credentials?  Where — 
Oh!" 

"Sign  it  J.  R.  Havering,  and  tell  'em  the 
price  is  forty  dollars." 

The  colonel  was  a  small  man,  high-voiced, 
quick-eyed,  but  not  without  a  certain  cheer 
fulness.  He  glanced  up  from  the  papers  with 
an  appreciative  twinkle.  The  men  slouched 
easily  in  their  saddles.  The  horses  stamped 
and  shifted. 

"Here!     Give  these  back  to  him." 

"Don't  we  take  him,  colonel?" 
180 


"The    Debatable    Land'1 

"No.  What  for?  Give  him  back  every 
thing.  All  ready!  Forward!  Wait!"  He 
pulled  up  suddenly. 

"Mr.  Havering."  The  little  colonel  was 
dignified. 

Havering  pocketed  his  property  calmly,  as 
if  in  the  common  flux  of  things,  the  flowing 
change  of  time,  scene,  and  event,  it  was  not 
strange,  whatever  went  and  came,  or  how 
ever  suddenly.  Anyway,  this  world  was  a 
fleeting  show,  an  incessant  comedy  without 
plot. 

"Sir/' 

"  Such  Northern  newspapers  as  yours,  which 
have — in  the  past,  at  least — been  inclined  to 
criticise  the  unprovoked  invasion  of  Virginia, 
it  is  desired  by  the  authorities  that  such  news 
papers  should  be  treated  with  consideration. 
You  follow  me,  sir?" 

"With  strict  attention."  Havering  leaned 
forward,  his  hands  on  the  burned  turf.  His 
feet  dangled  against  the  bank. 

"  Distinguished  consideration.  You  will  men 
tion  that  attitude,  no  doubt." 

"No  doubt  at  all." 

"Good-morning,  sir." 

"Good-morning,  colonel." 
IQO 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

The  troop  departed  with  crowded  thud  of 
hoofs  and  scatter  of  sand. 

Havering  watched  them  out  of  sight,  then 
slid  down  the  bank  and  picked  up  his  hat. 
He  lifted  the  head  of  the  prostrate  horse,  but 
the  eyes  were  dull,  the  throat  full  of  blood; 
unbuckled  the  bridle  and  slung  it  over  his  arm. 
The  long,  yellow  level  of  the  road-bed  to  the 
nearest  curves  was  empty  in  both  directions. 
He  was  quite  alone  in  the  desolation.  He  mut 
tered  and  hummed  in  profoundest  bass.  "  Sin 
gular  game  —  'Plaidie  to  the  angry  airt' — 
recondite,  astrological.  Make  a  note  of  it; 
cavalry  officers  as  a  class  are  eccentric  and 
deep.  It's  not  my  funeral.  It  appears  to  be 
the  anchorite's.  'The  brightest  jewel  in  my 
crown ' " —  He  crossed  the  road-bed,  picked  his 
way  eastward  into  the  woods,  long-stepping, 
bridle  on  arm,  gaunt  and  black,  over  the  black 
ground  among  the  gaunt,  black  stumps  of  the 
charred  trees — "Wad  be  mv  queen/' 
191 


Chapter  XV 

Treats  of  the    Distribution  of   Tracts  in  the  Valley  of 
the   Shenandoah. 

THE  Shenandoah  goes  by  the  eastern  edge 
of  the  wide  valley,  murmuring  its  own  musical 
name,  "Shenandoah/'  as  if  it  knew  the  word's 
significance  in  glory,  tumult,  and  pain,  but 
had  taught  all  three  to  march  to  a  quiet  re 
quiem;  "Shenandoah" — old,  unhappy,  far-off 
things,  under  the  lulling  and  palliation  now  of 
many  years. 

Gard  rode  directly  south,  through  plodding, 
dusty  lines  of  haggard-eyed  men,  and  came 
to  it  a  few  miles  above  the  jimction  and  the 
famous  Ferry.  The  cannon  boomed  all  day  on 
his  left  over  by  the  larger  river.  He  rode  by 
daylight  and  openly  and  none  seemed  to 
doubt  him;  his  dress  and  little  printed  tracts 
were  passports  enough  for  the  time.  He  fell 
into  the  habit,  first  by  impulse  and  then  by 
policy,  of  carrying  a  tract  in  his  hand,  using 
its  subject  and  phraseology  for  the  next 

192 


"The     Debatable    Land" 

conversation  and  entering  on  the  subject 
promptly. 

It  gave  him  a  sense  of  detachment  and  isola 
tion  of  a  peculiar  kind,  this  urging  on  some 
weary  and  hurrying  group  a  doctrine  of  peace, 
compassion,  and  humility,  as  if  the  manner 
and  language  were  working  inward  and  grow 
ing  less  alien  to  him,  and  he  really  were  a  mys 
terious  evangelist — a  messenger  with  spiritual 
tidings  and  council.  He  noticed — and  it  seem 
ed  from  its  recurrence  to  have  a  certain  pathos 
—that,  after  the  laughter  which  rose  around 
him  in  most  cases  had  subsided,  the  faces 
would  lose  their  weariness  and  strain,  and 
seem  to  express  another  side  of  their  humanity. 
They  reminded  him,  then,  of  the  fruit-seller  and 
the  policeman  on  the  avenue,  where  he  used  to 
go  to  and  from  the  Brotherhood  of  Consolation 
and  the  Church  of  the  Trinity,  who  recognized 
in  him  some  one  apart  and  remote  from  the 
current  of  events — the  river  of  humanity  on  the 
avenue. 

It  was  even  a  more  turbulent  river  that  was 
pouring  west  and  southwest  along  the  two  rail 
roads  leading  from  the  Ferry.  They  were 
beginning  to  tear  up  and  burn  the  northern 
line,  but  along  the  other  the  trains  still  moved 
"  193 


•'The    Debatable    Land" 

in  puffing  succession.  To  Gard  the  sense  of 
the  part  he  played  was  strong  almost  to  reality. 
The  quaint,  biblical,  old-world  phrases  which 
he  ever  kept  reading  and  repeating  reacted 
upon  him.  He  seemed,  even  to  himself,  to 
become  intangible  and  apart. 

"  What  shall  a  man  take  in  exchange  for  his 
soul?"  halting  his  horse  and  taking  out  the 
little  white  tract. 

"I  don't  know.  If  you've  got  a  plug  of 
tobacco  I  might  trade." 

"  If  I  had  any,  friend,  I  would  give  it  to  you 
freely." 

The  man  looked  at  him  curiously. 

"I  reckon  you  would  now.  This  the  best 
you  know  how,  ain't  it?" 

Others  who  had  stopped  laughed  and  swarm 
ed  around.  "Give  me  one!"  "Me  one!" 

"There  are  more  who  need  them." 

"Oh,  all  right." 

"No  hogs  here." 

"Good-luck  to  you,  elder." 

The  stream  flowed  on,  some  chuckling  over 
their  tracts,  some  silent.  An  officer  said: 

"You  ought  to  get  a  pass,  elder."  So  he 
came  to  where  the  Shenandoah  murmured  its 
musical  name.  A  range  of  blue  mountains 
194 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

rose  beyond  it.  There  seemed  to  be  little  go 
ing  on  by  the  river.  The  retreat  had  shifted  to 
the  west  along  the  railroads  into  the  Opequan 
valley,  and  he  turned  and  rode  west  among 
low,  wooded  hills.  It  was  Wednesday.  They 
were  tearing  and  burning  the  southern  of  the 
two  railroads  now  —  an  endless  row  of  bon 
fires  of  the  ties,  the  iron  rails  laid  across  them 
to  be  heated  for  bending. 

'"Let  not  your  hearts  be  troubled/" 

A  man  bending  over  a  rail  drew  his  hand 
back,  swore  lustily,  and  straightened  up. 

"What's  that?    Oh!"    He  took  the  tract. 

"  That's  what  it  says,  sure  enough.  Maybe 
you  don't  know  that  rail  was  hot."  The  tract 
was  passed  around.  One  read  aloud,  "He 
hath  taken  charge  and  command.  He  hath  es 
tablished  His  law." 

Gard  sat  motionless  on  his  horse,  looking 
placidly  over  their  heads  to  the  pale-blue  ho 
rizon. 

"  Who  is  the  one  greatest  in  authority  here?" 

"  This  side  of  God  Almighty  and  Winchester, 
I  reckon  you  mean  the  old  man.  Hi,  lieu 
tenant!"  The  cantering  officer  pulled  up. 
"He  wants  the  general." 

"Does,  does  he?    What  for?" 
195 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

A  pause.  Gard  dropped  his  eyes  to  the 
officer  who  was  reading  the  tract. 

"It  is  said  to  be  best  that  I  should  have 
his  permission  to — " 

"Oh,  I  see.     Come  along,  then." 

They  rode  beside  the  track  through  strata  of 
heat  and  smoke  from  the  fires,  Gard  following. 
It  occurred  to  him  that  he  had  given  his  name 
on  an  impulse  the  day  before  as  Moselle,  and 
would  possibly  need  it  now.  They  came  to  a 
group  of  horsemen,  talking,  except  one  in 
front  of  them,  who  watched  the  toiling  squads 
silently.  He  wore  a  full  black  beard,  and  sat 
his  horse  awkwardly. 

"  This  seems  to  be  some  kind  of  a  missionary, 
general.  He  wants  to  see  you." 

The  general  glanced  up  under  the  brim  of 
his  slouched  hat;  then  suddenly  flung  back 
his  head,  so  that  his  big  beard  stood  out  from 
his  chest,  and  said,  simply: 

"What  do  you  want?" 

"  I  am  directed  by  a  Session  of  the  Brethren 
to  distribute  these." 

"Who  are  you?" 

"Of  a  congregation  in  Maryland." 

"What  is  your  name?" 

"Moselle." 

196 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

"Who  are  the  Brethren?" 

"We  are  called  Bunkers  by  those  not  of  our 
communion.  We  do  not  use  the  name/' 

"  There  was  a  church  of  that  sect  near  Sharps- 
burg." 

"It  is  our  church/' 

"  They  seemed  to  be  German.  You  have  no 
accent/' 

"  It  was  said  to  be  the  reason  I  was  chosen — 
the  speaking  freely  the  language.  It  was  said 
at  the  Session/' 

"Very  well." 

He  dropped  his  eyes  to  the  tract  in  his  hand. 

Gard  remained  placid,  persistent. 

"It  was  said  a  permission  might  be  written/' 

"Very  well." 

He  wrote  a  few  words  on  a  scrap  of  paper 
and  handed  it  to  Gard. 

"May  I  keep  this  tract  in  exchange?" 

"It  is  not  exchanged.     It  is  given." 

Gard  turned  his  horse.  The  general  looked 
up. 

"You  are  a  young  man" — silence —  "But 
your  sect  takes  no  part  in  wars."  Gard  waited. 
"Do  you  know  the  subject  of  this  tract?" 

"  It  is  on  the  text, '  I  must  be  about  my  Fa 
ther's  business/" 

197 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

The  general  seemed  to  have  in  mind  to  say 
more.  He  looked  at  Gard  peculiarly— not  quite 
as  the  others  had  seemed  to  do,  half  suspecting, 
half  recognizing  an  alien  being,  a  moral  and 
mental  unknown  at  some  withdrawn  height, 
but  as  if  recognizing  one  like  himself  in  isola 
tion  and  pilgrimage,  and  so  understanding  his 
bearing  and  capacity  for  silence. 

The  horsemen  behind  whispered  and  smiled. 

"Very  well/'  The  general  turned  again  to 
the  working  squads,  and  Gard  rode  away  in 
the  smoke  that  drifted  from  the  fires  across  the 
track.  He  had  a  sense,  too,  of  some  flash  of 
recognition  that  had  gone  below  the  part  he 
was  playing,  and  seemed  to  involve  a  saluta 
tion  and  question  of  other  import  and  circum 
stance,  a  recognition  of  kinship  in  the  knowl 
edge  of  other  realities  than  the  feet  walk  upon 
or  the  eyes  see;  knowledge  of  the  silence  out 
of  which  one  is  born,  of  the  flux  of  his  present, 
of  destiny  in  ambush,  of  the  "  stream  of  the 
flying  constellations/'  and  the  steady  pour  of 
time,  "  inhaled  as  a  vapor  " ;  knowledge  of  the 
individual's  own  lonely  issue  in  the  midst  of 
these.  But  the  turning  again  to  his  working 
squads  seemed  to  have  been  the  general's 
solution — or,  at  least,  conclusion.  "  Very  well " ; 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

one  must  be  about  the  business  set  him  to  do. 
"  He  must  work  in  his  garden/'  had  been  more 
than  one  sage's  conclusion. 

Gard  did  not  entirely  wish  to  work  his  way 
back  to  the  point  of  view  that  once  had  been  his, 
of  a  spectator  of  events,  who  only  acted  in  them 
in  order  to  appreciate  them  vividly.  He  wished 
to  regain  his  old  enthusiasm,  the  poise  and  the 
clear  sense  of  things,  the  interest,  dulled  since 
the  Peninsular  campaign;  and  for  the  rest,  to 
go  on  to  positions  requiring  new  definitions. 
So  far  as  the  general  had  served  as  a  councillor, 
he  had  seemed  to  advise  attention  to  business, 
to  imply  that  there  was  personal  value  in  sim 
ple  and  direct  doing. 

During  the  two  following  days  Gard  rode 
along  the  railroad  to  Winchester,  and  up  and 
down  the  Opequan  valley,  picking  up  in 
formation  and  asking  such  questions  as  he 
could  make  bear  on  the  distribution  of  tracts. 
Once  or  twice  he  thought  he  recognized  a  face 
he  had  seen  across  the  road  by  the  Dunker 
church.  It  was  not  impossible.  But  one  could 
not  identify  from  such  smoky  glimpses. 

On  Saturday  he  left  Winchester  and  went 
eastward,  crossing  the  Opequan  where  the  turn 
pike  led  by  a  shallow,  rippling  ford,  and  the 
199 


"The    Debatable    Land'1 

flat-fenced  meadows  of  the  bottom  lands  were 
all  about.  His  saddle-bags  were  nearly  empty, 
and  beyond  the  Blue  Ridge  he  might  find 
means  to  send  a  message  north. 

A  horseman  was  watering  his  horse  at  the 
ford,  his  hat  tipped  back,  a  bandage  around 
his  head.  They  greeted,  and  Gard  handed  him 
a  tract. 

"  Henceforth  there  is  laid  up  for  me  a  crown." 
It  was  one  of  the  faces  he  seemed  to  have  seen. 

"Oh,  you're  that  missionary  they  call  'Ab 
stract  Piety/  Well,  look  here!" 

He  stopped  and  stared.  Gard  leaned  for 
ward  to  let  his  horse  drink,  saw  his  own  face 
in  the  stream,  and  wondered  what  it  might 
mean  to  the  man  with  the  bandage  who  watched 
him,  and  whom  he  had  somewhere  seen.  It 
might  be  a  critical  question,  what  his  face 
meant  to  the  man  with  the  bandage.  Crises! 
As  one  went  on,  every  step  was  a  crisis  between 
the  moment  past  and  the  moment  in  front. 
The  current  streaked  the  reflections  in  the  wa 
ter,  and  there  were  little  brown  minnows  holding 
their  heads  up-stream.  He  noticed  his  own 
expression  in  the  reflection  —  the  impassive 
mask  that  he  had  come  to  wear  without 
effort,  the  spade-shaped  beard,  the  lips  whiter 
200 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

than  the  rest  of  the  tanned  skin,  which  might 
suggest  to  the  acute  that  the  shaving  of  them 
was  recent,  the  swift  curve  of  the  hair-line, 
the  heavy  eyelids  over  eyes  that  looked  up 
dreamily  out  of  the  wavering  water.  He 
thought  that,  from  an  artistic  standpoint,  he 
must  look  his  part,  or  something  like  it,  with  an 
emphasis.  But  every  one  travels  by  his  own 
road  to  his  own  conclusions.  The  man,  whose 
white  bandage  wavered  and  gleamed  in  the 
water  near  his  own  reflection,  reminded  him  of 
one  from  whom  he  had  taken  a  pistol  in  the 
cornfield  by  the  Dunker  church,  whose  eyes 
had  been  mad  and  glaring,  and  his  hair  soaked 
in  his  own  blood.  In  fact,  that  was  the  face. 
Crises!  Did  it  mean  the  sudden  end  of  his 
running  days?  Probably  either  his  or  the 
other  man's.  Their  reflections  in  the  stream 
seemed  to  parody  them,  to  watch  and  mimic. 
The  water  chuckled.  There  was  something 
ironic  in  things.  One  fancied  the  current  of 
time  itself  to  be  streaming  and  streaked  yel 
low  in  the  sunlight,  and  full  of  bubbles.  The 
minnows  poised  and  darted  against  the  stream. 

Gard's  horse  flung  up  his  head  with  a  start. 

"  If  the  message  I  have  given  you  is  not  for 
you,  will  you  not  give  it  to  another?" 
201 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

As  he  left  the  water  he  heard  the  other's 
horse  splashing  behind  him.  The  road  turned 
from  the  river  through  a  sandy  cut  in  the  woods. 
At  the  woods'  edge  the  bandaged  head  was 
beside  him. 

"Stranger,  you  don't  happen  to  have  that 
gun  about  you  you  stole  from  me?" 

Card  turned  and  looked  into  the  small,  black, 
fatal  circle  of  a  pistol  barrel,  like  an  eye-socket 
with  the  ball  in  ominous  retreat. 

"I  do  not  carry  weapons,"  he  said,  quietly. 

"You  don't!  I  reckon  you  do.  You  ought 
to  have  plugged  me  down  at  the  ford  with  one 
of  those  weapons  you  don't  carry.  We're  go 
ing  back." 

"If  you  wish  to  take  my  life — " 

"I'd  like  to,  mightily." 

"Very  well." 

"  You're  a  Yankee  spy.  Wheel  around  there 
and  keep  ahead." 

"This  mistake  delays  me.     I  have  permis 


sion — " 


"Keep  your  hand  out  of  your  pocket." 
Gard  paused  an  instant,  then  said:  "Very 
well/'    and    turned   his   horse   slowly   to   the 
right,  shook   his   left   foot   from   the  stirrup, 
and  guided  his  horse  close  in.     Their  right 
202 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

shoulders  almost  touched.  He  gripped  the 
man's  pistol-hand  and  throat  with  the  same 
movement.  The  pistol  spat  past  his  cheek. 
He  heaved,  left  foot  in  the  saddle,  and  leaped. 
The  man  gurgled,  and  the}^  fell  over  his  horse's 
cruppers  heavily  in  the  road,  the  man  below 
on  his  bandaged  head.  The  bandage  fell  off; 
his  blood  trickled  into  the  dust,  and  he  lay  still. 
The  horses  had  cantered  apart. 

Gard  twisted  his  head  around  as  he  lay 
athwart,  looked  an  instant,  and  loosened  his 
hand  from  the  black  -  bearded  throat.  The 
grip  was  so  hard  and  sinewy,  it  was  like  untying 
a  knot.  It  took  effort,  as  if  his  muscles  had 
been  screwed  up  and  rusted  in  place.  The 
man  was  dead  or  stunned. 

Gard  got  up  with  the  pistol  in  his  hand.  He 
brushed  his  own  clothes,  caught  his  horse, 
sent  the  other's  with  a  cut  from  a  switch  gallop 
ing  away  into  the  woods,  and  came  back. 
He  found  cartridges  and  a  glass  flask  full  of 
whivskey  in  the  man's  pockets,  and  put  them  in 
his  own.  If  not  dead,  perhaps  he  had  better  be  ; 
otherwise  one  must  change  disguise,  and  proper 
disguises  were  not  easy.  He  slipped  a  cartridge 
and  cocked  the  trigger. 

The  sun  above  the  trees  shone  on  the  livid 
203 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

face  in  the  dust.  It  was  about  noon,  and  the 
hour  that  Mavering  stalked  from  the  sandy 
road-bed  thirty  miles  away  into  the  charred 
forest  and  murmured:  "It's  not  my  funeral. 
It  appears  to  be  the  anchorite's/' 

On  the  whole,  the  neighborhood  was  too  lively 
for  loose  pistol-shooting.  Gard  lifted  the  limp 
body  and  carried  it  into  a  thicket,  brought  the 
bandage  and  laid  it  beside,  kicked  the  dust 
over  the  blood-pools  in  the  road,  mounted  his 
horse  and  smoothed  his  face,  trying  to  settle  its 
placidity. 

He  trotted  and  cantered  all  the  afternoon 
northeastward  among  low  hills,  passing  many 
untroubled  farm-yards,  but  little  soldiery.  A 
couple  of  horsemen  said,  "  Howdy,  elder/' 
and  seemed  to  have  met  with  him  and  his 
mission  before.  He  gave  them  one  of  his  few 
remaining  tracts  absent-mindedly,  without  an 
swering,  came  when  the  sun  was  low  to  the 
Shenandoah,  and  heard  it  murmur  its  musical 
name. 

"Probably  he'd  been  more  convenient  dead." 

The  bridge  was  burned.  He  swam  his 
horse  through  the  current.  The  blue  moun 
tains  fronted  him  darkly  against  the  sky. 
The  turnpike  led  up  through  a  gap  and  so 
204 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

over  into  the  elder  Virginia.  It  was  dark 
when  he  reached  the  end  of  the  meadow  lands 
where  the  upward  pitch  and  the  woods  of  the 
mountain  road  began.  "  Probably  he'd  be 
handier  that  way/' 

At  the  top  of  the  gap  were  open  pastures,  a 
cabin  where  a  dog  barked,  but  no  light  shone 
in  the  windows.  The  stars  were  out  innumer 
ably,  the  valley  behind  in  the  cold,  blue  vapor 
of  the  night. 

"  But  it  might  be  better  to  change  the  part, 
after  all/'  he  thought;  " better  for  luck." 

Fortune  might  grow  weary,  a  good  mule  be 
overworked,  a  good  tune  sung  too  long;  for 
instance,  the  doxology  was  a  good  tune,  two- 
four  time,  the  measure  of  the  tread  of  the  moral 
law,  a  taciturn,  single-minded  tune,  something 
like  the  general  who  sat  his  horse  awkwardly 
by  the  burning  railroad. 

The  moon  that  was  slender  and  new  at 
Antietam  had  grown  round  as  a  shield  and  rose 
late.  Beyond  the  pastures  on  the  gap  the  road 
led  down  through  the  woods  to  the  elder  land 
asleep  in  the  moonrise. 

"  Einst,  O  W under,  einst,"  the  world  and  the 
young  man,  the  big  wars,  the  stir  of  living! 
And  how  wonderful  then  the  moon  and  the 
205 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

night's  infinite  valleys,  the  glory  of  being  and 
of  loneliness,  when  to  be  a  living  soul  was 
royal  and  the  splendor  of  the  night  was  its 
crown,  when  palpable  currents,  rivers  thrilling 
and  divine,  poured  into  it,  as  the  universe 
paid  homage  to  its  worth.  Gard  felt  that  he 
had  somewhere  lost  his  resonance.  He  must 
look  for  another  coat  and  a  happier  disposition, 
shave  his  beard  and  shake  dice  with  chance 
again.  The  road  plunged  down  into  the 
cavern  of  the  woods.  He  let  his  horse  pick 
his  way,  and  judged  the  character  of  the  road 
bed  from  the  sound  of  his  steps  below  in  the 
darkness. 

206 


Chapter  XVI 

Which  Discloses  one  Daddy  Joe,  and  Disposes  of  an 
Evangelist 

IT  was  chilly  at  that  height.  Gard  rode 
all  night  down  the  mountain  -  side,  and  saw  at 
last  the  lights  of  moon  and  sunrise  mingling 
over  the  meadows  and  cornfields  of  a  plantation 
close  below  him.  The  forest  grew  thinner 
and  broke  into  clearing  and  pastures.  He 
left  the  highway  by  an  old  cart-road  whose  ruts 
were  grass-grown,  though  its  centre  was  trod 
den  hard  by  many  human  feet,  and  passed  an 
empty  building  of  rough  boards — a  school-house 
or  a  negro  church.  The  big  chestnuts  hung 
over  it,  and  underbrush  grew  up  to  its  windows. 
The  path  went  to  the  door,  swerved  aside 
through  the  thicket,  and  at  last  ran  into  a  little, 
lonely,  hollow  pasture,  with  the  sunlight  pour 
ing  over  its  edge  as  into  a  cup.  He  picketed 
his  horse  to  a  thin  sapling  that  would  bend 
and  let  the  horse  eat,  and  lay  down  near  a 
bowlder  where  the  sunlight  seemed  to  be  the 
207 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

yellowest,  smiling  to  feel  the  warmth  steal 
through  him.  "There's  too  much  luxury 
in  my  bones  for  an  evangelist/'  Presently 
he  was  asleep.  The  sun  mounted,  swung 
around  by  the  south,  and  the  shadow  of  the 
bowlder  went  over  the  sleeper.  An  old  negro, 
with  bowed  head  and  cane  in  hand,  stumped 
vigorously  along  the  path  towards  the  building 
under  the  chestnuts.  He  passed  the  bowlder 
on  the  other  side,  and  saw  neither  the  sleeper 
nor  the  horse  picketed  among  the  saplings  and 
feeding  quietly.  He  wore  a  suit  of  fine  broad 
cloth,  the  coat  lined  with  silk  and  stained  and 
threadbare,  a  white  vest,  a  blue,  dotted  cravat, 
and  a  soft,  gray  hat.  After  that  the  clearing 
was  silent  except  for  passing  crows  and  drowsy 
insects. 

Suddenly  the  woods  became  choral,  a  burst 
of  singing  from  the  chestnut  grove.  Gard 
started,  sat  up,  and  listened. 

"  That's  no  jingle !     That's  music ! " 

He  jumped  to  his  feet  and  ran  across  the 
pasture,  crept  hurriedly  through  a  thicket  to 
a  window  brushed  by  leaves  of  the  underwood. 
He  was  absorbed  and  eager. 

"Man  there  with  a  voice  like  a  bass  viol!" 
he  muttered. 

208 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

"  I  wished  I  didn't  wake  an'  sleep, 
I  wished  I  did  lay  down  an'  weep, 

By  Jordan,  Jordan. 
If  I  could  come  to  that  Dead  Sea, 
I'd  wade  up  stream  to  Galilee, 

By  Jordan." 

Each  verse  boomed  up  a  noble  crescendo 
and  fell  away  in  plaintive  minor  chords.  The 
preacher  in  the  pulpit,  in  white  vest,  dotted 
cravat,  and  fashionably  cut  coat,  cried : 

"Mou'n  an'  pray!     Mou'n  an'  pray!" 

"  I  wished  I  weep  when  Jesus  weep, 
I  wished  he  wash  me  wid  he  sheep 

In  Jordan,  Jordan. 

I'd  drown  in  Jordan  wave  and  shout — 
'Lord  Jesus  take  my  white  soul  out 

Of  Jordan.'  " 

"You  wa'min,  brer'n,  you  wa'min!  Lo'd 
God!  Jordan!  Mou'n  an'  pray!" 

"  I  wished  the  burden  on  my  soul 
Would  roll  away.     Roll,  Jordan,  roll  I 

Roll,  Jordan,  Jordan  ! 
Lord  Jesus  disher  sheep  astray, 
Ain'  You  gwine  show  me  yonder  way 
To  Jordan?" 

"De  tex  V  began  the  preacher,  "is  'bout  er 

man  what  he  Lord  len'  him  a  talent — da's  a 

big  bit  of  money,  oom! — an'  he  wrap  it  in  a 

napkin  caze  he  skeered   of  it  an'  hide  it,  an' 

M  209 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

go  'way  crackin'  he  knuckle  -  bones.  'Hiyi!' 
An'  he  Lord  say,  'You  shifless  brack  rascal! 
Ain'  you  got  sense  to  buy  er  cow  what  he  feed 
in  de  pasture,  an'  bimeby  deh's  er  calf,  an' 
de  cow's  good  as  befo',  an'  da's  de  calf,  wuf 
eighteen  dollars,  Confed'ate  money?'  Das' 
what  Mars  Ca'leton  give  Miss  Meely  fo'  de 
white  yeahlin'  what  ain'  any  special  so't  of  er 
calf.  He  Lord  say,  '  Give  me  dat  talent !  You 
go  hoe  co'n  in  de  co'nfield.  I  spec  you  skeered 
to  tu'n  roun'  when  you  get  de  end  of  de  row. 
You  ain'  got  business  ent'prise,'  he  say.  'You 
go  fin'  er  slipper-sloppy  mud  turkle  what  know 
how  keep  he  shirt  on  he  back  an'  he  fingehs  an' 
toes  inside  he  shirt,  an'  lay  down  in  de  slipper- 
sloppy  mud  wid  him.  Da's  de  habit  an'  per- 
fession,'  he  say,  ' ez  sholy  'bout  right  fo'  you.' 
Disher's  de  say  in'  of  scripcheh,  caze  Miss 
Meely  read  it  ter  me  las'  night,  an'  ef  it  ain'  de 
exac'  wo'ds,  da's  de  efficaciousness.  Da's  de 
efficaciousness.  Wha's  de  residuum? 

"Ef  you  kotch  a  rabbit,  an'  skin  him,  an' 
clean  him  to  he  bone  meat,  an'  bile  him  till  he 
swim  in  he  own  gravy,  an'  smell,  oom !  he  smell 
sweeter  'n  Miss  Meely's  flower-gyarden,  da's 
de  efficaciousness  of  de  rabbit.  But  afteh  you 
done  et  de  rabbit,  an'  he  mek  de  sunshine  in- 
210 


"The    Debatable  Land" 

side,  an'  de  notion  how  soon  you  go  kotch  one 
mo',  da's  de  residuum.  I  tell  you  fo'  sho  fac'. 
Wha's  de  residuum?  Ain'  I  heah  las'  week 
to  Leesburg  how  de  Yankees  done  mek  er 
Proclamation,  an'  deh  pos'  it  on  de  do'  of  de 
Cyounty  House  up  no'th,  dat  de  niggehs  gwine 
all  be  free?  Ain'  Brer  Jacob  dar  skip  up  fom 
de  gyarden  whar  he  rakin'  weeds  an'  tell  Miss 
Meely  how  he  gwine  be  free?  Ain'  Miss  Meely 
cuff  he  yeahs  fo'  pesterin'  her?  Ain'  he  got  no 
mo'  use  fo'  he  freedom  'n  ter  gallop  roun'  fo'  he 
got  it,  an'  pester  Miss  Meely  what  been  shovin' 
co'n  pone  'n  bacon  in  he  mouf  since  he  been  a 
pickaninny  ?  Oom ! 

"What  you  gwine  do  wid  er  talent  ef  you 
got  it?  Gwine  git  so  tickle  befo'  you  know 
what  it  is?  Gwine  git  ter  de  end  of  de  co'n 
row  an'  hoe  on  out  'n  in  de  swamp  caze  ain' 
no  man  tell  you  tu'n.  Gwine  lie  in  de  road 
way  for  er  jumpy -tail  wabble -yeah  rabbit 
run  down  you  mouf  when  you  hungry  ? 
Gwine  splash  in  de  creek  wid  de  mud  turkle 
wid  he  fingehs  an'  toes  wrap  in  he  shirt. 
Hiyah!  Oom!  Comin'  a  day  of-er-er-lamen- 
tation  an'  dry  bones,  when  de  whippo'will 
be  cryin'  he  lonesome  lak  he  lookin'  fo'  some 
one  he  cyarn  fin' ;  an'  ef  he  lookin'  fo'  a  nig- 
211 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

geh  wuf  len'in'  a  talent  to,  da's  some  one  he 
cyarn  fin'. 

"He  Lord  len'  him  a  talent,  say  de  good 
book.  Oom!  De  efficaciousness  of  de  tex'  am 
disher  solemn  wa'nin'.  Don'  go  roun'  ast 
white  folks  len'  you  money.  De  borrowin' 
money's  de  beginnin'  of  trouble.  Ain' nobody 
know  when  deh  gwine  ast  fo'  it  again.  Mote 
ast  fo'  it  de  day  afteh  you  put  in  er  pocket  wid 
de  hole  clean  down  de  groun'.  Mote  tell  you 
buy  er  cow  an'  wait  fo'  de  calf,  what  de  sojers 
take  it  lak  deh  tuk  Miss  Meely's  ho'ses  'cep  de 
two  up  in  de  hill  pasture.  De  efficaciousness 
of  de  tex'  am  disher  solemn  wa'nin.  Wha's 
de  residuum?" 

The  preacher  swung  his  arms  over  his  head 
shouting : 

"Jo'dan!  Jo'dan!  Ain' no  shinin',  ain'  no 
gladness,  on'y  'yond  Jo'dan !  Ain'  gwine  be  no 
free  niggeh!  Ain' gwine  be  no  slave !  Gwine 
'yond  Jo'dan!" 

The  congregation  swayed,  moaned,  shouted : 

"Jordan!     Jordan!" 

"  Ain'  I  hyah  de  whippo'will  cryin'  de  yeven- 
in',  'Daddy  Joe,  come  'yond  Jo'dan,  Daddy 
Joe.'  Jo'dan  Jo'dan!" 

"Amen!" 

212 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

"Now  you  shoutinM" 

From  his  ambush  Gard  could  see  the  preacher 
plainly  through  the  window  and  two  or  three 
of  the  swaying  heads  nearest  the  preacher. 
The  service  from  now  on  seemed  like  an  in 
coherent  tumult,  the  preacher's  voice  now  and 
then  above  it,  crying,  "Mou'n  an'  pray!"  until, 
at  last,  after  half  an  hour,  it  all  died  away,  and 
there  was  silence  except  for  the  sobbing,  moan 
ing,  and  panting.  The  preacher  had  sat  down, 
or  was  not  in  sight  from  where  Gard  was  hidden. 
Some  one  unseen  at  the  other  end  of  the  building 
began  to  sing  softly: 

"  There's  a  little  wheel  am  turning  in  my  heart." 

Gradually  the  congregation  dropped  into  the 
melody,  all  singing  softly. 

"  There's  a  little  wheel  am  turning  in  my  heart, 

In  my  heart,  in  my  heart. 
That  little  wheel  am  Jesus  in  my  heart, 

In  my  heart,  in  my  heart — 
I  don*  want  no  deception  in  my  heart." 

There  was  a  long  prayer  in  a  husky  whisper. 
The  preacher  seemed  exhausted.     The  meeting 
broke  up.     Gard  counted  fifty  or  more  as  they 
213 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

came  out.  They  all  took  the  path  to  the  high 
way,  except  the  preacher,  who  stumped  away 
towards  the  pasture.  Gard  waited  till  every 
thing  was  still,  then  stepped  into  the  path  and 
followed  him.  When  he  came  into  the  pasture 
he  saw  the  old  man  down  by  the  bunch  of 
saplings,  examining  the  horse,  and  joined  him 
promptly. 

"  Good-morning,  friend." 

"Mo'nin,  sah;  disher  you  ho'se,  sah?" 

Gard  felt  in  the  saddle-bags  and  found  a 
couple  of  tracts  left. 

"You  do  not  know  how  to  read?  These 
are  two  short  sermons  upon  the  texts,  'Who 
soever  calleth  his  brother  a  fool  is  in  danger  of 
hell-fire, '  and  '  He  that  loseth  himself  shall 
find  himself/  You  live  over  there,  in  a  cabin 
by  yourself?" 

"Hey!    Yes,  sah." 

"  If  you  like  I  will  go  with  you  and  read  }^ou 
these  sermons?" 

They  went  up  the  pasture,  and  left  the  horse 
feeding  under  the  saplings. 

The  old  man   seemed  awe-struck,  as  if  he 

thought  Gard  might  be  some  such  spiritual 

stranger  as  visited  the  prophets  of  old  and  the 

chosen  servants  of  the  Lord.     He  walked  on, 

214 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

looking  up  shyly  at  his  sudden  guest,  who 
went  beside  him,  straight,  slim,  and  sinewy, 
with  sun-tanned  skin,  shaven  lips,  silky  black 
beard,  singular  hat,  with  broad,  stiff  brim, 
and  did  not,  surely,  in  that  garb  at  least,  look 
like  other  men.  When  they  came  to  where 
the  path  passed  from  the  clearing  into  the 
thicket  again  the  negro  stepped  aside.  Gard 
motioned  and  said: 

"After  you,  Daddy  Joe." 

"Ain'  he  know  my  name!  Ain'  he  know 
my  name!" 

The  path  led  down  and  came  out  on  the  bank 
of  a  creek,  with  old  willows  along  it  and  a  single 
little  cabin  back  of  the  willows  in  a  meadow. 
Across  the  creek  were  cornfields,  and  in  the  dis 
tance  the  chimneys  of  a  large  plantation  house. 

Gard  asked,  "Have  you  something  for  me 
to  eat?" 

"Yes,  sah.     Yes,  sah." 

They  sat  down  on  a  rickety  bench  at  the 
cabin  door,  and  Gard  read  the  two  tracts  while 
Daddy  Joe  watched  with  troubled,  pathetic 
eyes,  and  after  it  brought  out  corn-bread  and 
bacon  sizzling  in  a  pan.  The  sunshine  was 
warm.  Some  bird  whistled  shrilly  in  the 
willows  over  the  brown,  sluggish  creek.  The 
215 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

smoke  of  the  distant  chimneys  hung  heavily. 
Gard  felt  as  if  he  would  like  to  let  his  business 
slide  and  watch  for  hours  dreamily  the  hanging 
smoke,  and  gather  the  sense  of  contrast  be 
tween  the  tumult  of  the  times  and  spirit  of  the 
settled  land  brooded  over  by  memories  of 
generations  at  peace,  of  homes  and  familiar 
things. 

"Daddy  Joe/'  he  said,  suddenly,  "we  must 
work  in  our  garden/' 

Daddy  Joe  seemed  to  think  that  normal 
remarks  were  not  to  be  expected  from  a  visitant, 
possibly  heavenly,  at  any  rate  having  intimate 
knowledge  and  a  message  to  deliver. 

"Yes,  sah.  Da's  a  fac'.  We  must  work 
in  de  gyarden,  sholy." 

"I  have  something  for  you  to  do/'  He 
stopped.  Daddy  Joe's  sermon  had  seemed  to 
imply  an  adverse  opinion  to  negro  freedom. 

"You  are  wrong,  Daddy  Joe.  It  would  be 
better  for  the  slaves  to  be  free." 

"Fo'  God!" 

"You  really  think  so  yourself.  This  is 
what  you  think,  that  it  is  meant  they  shall  be 
free,  but  it  is  right  to  tell  them  that  their  free 
dom  will  be  a  trial  for  them  and  many  of  them 
will  fail.  This  is  what  you  think." 
216 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

"Da's  sholy  de  efficaciousness/' 

"  You  will  promise,  then,  in  order  to  help  this 
forward,  to  do  what  I  tell  you,  and  in  secret, 
so  that  no  one  here  shall  know.  It  is  a  small 
thing,  but  a  help  to  the  cause  of  the  Union 
armies,  which  is  the  cause  of  the  nation  and 
the  negro — you  will  do  this?" 

"  Yes,  sah,"  in  a  trembling  and  awed  whisper. 

"The  promise  is  upon  your  conscience  as  a 
preacher  of  the  Word." 

"Yes,  sah/'  almost  inaudibly. 

"This  is  it,  then.  You  will  give  me  the 
clothes  you  are  wearing,  for  which  I  will  pay 
you  twenty  dollars,  and  one  of  the  horses  hid 
den  in  the  hill  pasture/' 

"Fo'  God!" 

"You  will  take  my  horse  in  exchange,  ride 
to-morrow  morning,  before  daybreak,  for  Lees- 
burg,  and  take  the  train  to  Washington.  Have 
you  ever  been  in  Washington?" 

"Yes,  sah." 

"  I  will  give  you  a  paper  which  you  will  show 
to  any  soldier  about  Washington  who  stops 
you,  and  he  will  let  you  pass.  In  the  city  you 
will  find  the  War  Department,  and  there  leave 
that  paper  and  another  I  will  give  you.  The 
second  paper  you  will  not  let  any  one  see  before 
217 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

you  leave  it  at  the  War  Department.  You  will 
there  be  given  forty  dollars.  When  you  re 
turn  you  will  come  at  night  and  take  the  horse 
up  to  the  hill  pasture.  Will  you  have  to  ac 
count  for  your  absence?" 

"  Miss  Meely  done  lef '  me  go  preachin'  round 
de  cyounty,  sah.  Miss  Meely" — hesitating — 
"Miss  Meely  te'ible  sot  down  on  de  Yankees, 
sah." 

"Be  careful,  then.  We  must  work  in  our 
garden." 

"Sholy." 

"And  you  see  that  this  is  your  duty." 

"Yes,  sah." 

"  To-morrow  morning,  before  daybreak,  in  the 
road  beyond  your  church,  we  will  separate, 
and  you  will  not  see  me  any  more." 

Beside  Daddy  Joe's  bowed-down  humility 
and  belief  Gard  had  a  sensation  that  in  a 
measure  was  new — a  sense  of  ignobleness  and 
triviality.  In  some  strange  way  there  seemed 
to  rise  out  of  Daddy  Joe  a  certain  spiritual 
stature  and  significance.  One  seemed  to  dis 
cern  that  nowhere  in  his  soul  did  he  play  a 
part,  or  play  at  anything,  or  remember  himself. 
He  took  Gard  to  be  perhaps,  a  half-divine  evan 
gelist.  In  Daddy  Joe's  primitive  faith,  Gard 
218 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

fancied,  heavenly  incarnated  messengers  came 
as  easily  among  men  as  his  ancestral  gods 
had  come  in  the  jungle;  spirits,  evil  or  good, 
still  rode  the  night  wind;  a  magical  influence 
of  benefit  or  harm  was  a  quality  of  things,  like 
their  color  and  touch. 

It  was  out  of  these  conditions  that  the  his 
toric  faiths  had  come,  with  their  deep  simplici 
ties.  The  torch-bearers,  with  fresh  fire,  men  who 
travailed  with  the  secrets  of  the  future,  had  so 
sat  in  doorways,  taught  such  as  Daddy  Joe 
the  master  words,  and  forgot  the  times  filled 
with  wars  and  policies,  while  the  sunlight  was 
on  the  grainfields,  some  brown  creek  quiet  in  its 
bed,  and  the  hearth  smoke  hanging  in  the  air. 
But  he  had  not  any  such  message  for  Daddy 
Joe,  and  felt  trivial  in  his  mask.  Wars  and 
policies,  too,  were  trivial,  shadows  drifting 
across  the  cornfields,  ripples  on  the  slow  mass 
of  the  creek.  It  was  what  occurred  to  men 
in  doorways  and  by  roadsides  that  was  of  im 
portance,  that  lit  the  torches  and  determined 
the  massed  current. 

In  the  dark  of  the  dawn  they  separated  at  the 

highway.     Daddy  Joe  rode  downward  on  Gard's 

horse  with  the  white  forefoot.     A  few  hundred 

feet  and  he  pulled  up,  turned  in  his  saddle,  and 

219 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

looked  back.  The  horse  and  man  going  up 
under  the  pine  avenue  seemed  to  loom  large 
and  vague  in  the  gloom. 

"Fo'  God/'  he  whispered,  "am'  gwine  see 
him  no  mo'/' 

In  the  broad  daylight  on  top  of  the  gap 
Gard  examined  his  clothes,  rubbed  the  smooth 
ness  of  his  shaven  face,  and  observed  that  the 
horse  he  rode  was  an  iron-gray.  The  clothes 
were  a  gray  felt  hat,  a  long,  black  coat, thread 
bare  and  lined  with  silk,  a  white  vest,  dotted 
necktie  and  unstarched  linen,  black  trousers,  and 
his  own  shoes.  He  thought  he  might  resemble 
a  seedy  Southern  gentleman  in  possession  of  a 
whiskey  flask  and  an  eccentric  plan  for  the 
capture  of  the  city  of  Washington.  He  might 
imagine  a  resemblance  in  spirit  to  Jack  Haver 
ing.  It  would  furnish  a  basis  and  a  sequence. 

He  came  to  the  burned  bridge  on  the  Shenan- 
doah.  Three  or  four  horsemen  were  on  the 
other  side  who  met  and  greeted  him  when  he 
had  crossed. 

"Howdy/' 

"Howdy." 

Gard  wrung  the  water  from  his  wet  clothes 
and  waited.  One  of  the  horsemen  drew  a 
paper  from  his  pocket. 

220 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

"Haven't  seen  a  man  like  this  anywhere, 
have  you?"  and  read  from  the  paper. 

"  '  Loose,  black  clothes,  broad,  stiff -brimmed 
hat,  shaven  lips,  black  beard,  smooth  hair,  of 
sect  called  Bunkers,  carrying  saddle-bags,  rid 
ing  bay  horse  with  white  forefoot/  ' 

Gard  considered. 

"I  wouldn't  gamble  on  the  fo'  foot/'  he  said, 
slowly,  "but  there  was  an  individual  resem 
bling  otherwise  that  lucid  and  cyarefully  boiled 
description  over  ''yond  the  ridge.  He  gave 
me  a  printed  little  damn  sheet  which  contained 
discourteous  ref'ences  to  hell -fire.  But" — 
thoughtfully — "  that  ho'se,  'pears  to  me  his  feet 
matched." 

"  Never  mind.  That's  the  man.  They  said 
he  went  over  the  ridge.  Where'd  he  go  from 
then?" 

"He  'peared  to  be  pointed  for  Harper's 
Ferry." 

"Well,  we've  lost  him,  then." 

Gard  looked  sympathetic  and  reached  down 
into  the  tails  of  his  coat. 

"  There's  only  one  thing,  seh,  that's  equally 

good  for  disappointment  and  wet  feet.     This 

heah  whiskey  never  paid  any  duty  to  the  United 

States — I  have  my  doubts,  seh,  whether  it  paid 

221 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

any  to  the  Confed'acy.  I  should  like  to  devote 
a  generous  percentage  to  the  use  of  the  Con- 
fed'acy.  You  wouldn't  mind  assuming  charge 
of  that  percentage?" 

A  moment  later  the  other  asked,  "  Have  you 
got  the  tract  that  Yankee  scout  gave  you?" 

"Who?" 

"The  Bunker." 

"Oh!  ve'y  good!  As  applied  to  me,  I  took 
the  ref  ences  to  be  discourteous.  I  gave  it, 
seh,  to  a  iiiggeh." 

222 


Chapter   XVII 

On  the  Question  of  the  Exact  Location  of  the  Divinity 
which  is  Ultimately  Called  Worth  While 

THERE  is  said  to  be  a  divinity  in  our  dis 
content,  the  pull  of  some  large  law  and  onward 
gravitation  such  as  tends  to  make  vivid  rivers, 
and  only  where  it  fails  to  influence  are  stag 
nant  pools.  On  stagnant  pools  the  water-lilies 
float,  no  doubt,  white  and  passionate  in  fra 
grance,  and  cardinal  flowers  are  along  their 
shores;  but  law  and  divinity  seem  to  be  with 
the  rivers — such  rivers  as  the  Shenandoah, 
which  Gard  met  at  different  points,  and  often 
enough  during  October,  until  it  had  become  a 
familiar  sight — until  the  leaves  of  the  oaks 
had  turned  a  burnished  red-and-bronze,  and  the 
Confederate  army  had  moved  far  up  the  valley. 
He  passed  through  the  army,  around  it,  and 
back  again,  explained  his  scheme  for  the  capt 
ure  of  Washington,  collected  orders  for  the 
delivery  of  unlicensed  whiskey,  and  walked  in 
the  vshadow  of  his  discontent. 
223 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

In  answer  to  the  question,  "What  am  I  in 
my  being,  my  centre  and  self?"  that  centre  and 
self  seemed  to  grow  featureless  to  his  question 
ing.  The  continual  acting  of  a  part  suggested 
the  question — his  being  able  to  assume  a  charac 
ter,  to  fill  it  out,  to  mould  himself  to  it,  and  so  to 
act  it  consistently  and  hardly  with  conscious 
effort,  emphasized  the  question.  Had  he  no 
shape  of  his  own  to  protest  against  the  pre 
sumption  of  other  shapes?  Was  a  man  no 
more  in  reality  than  a  piece  of  lead  pipe  for 
ideas,  impressions,  and  emotions  of  unknown 
origin  to  run  through  for  the  mere  purpose  of 
passage,  and  finally  to  wear  thin  and  wear  out? 
Not  altogether,  since  each  experience  seemed 
to  leave  him  not  what  he  was  before.  The 
meeting  with  Daddy  Joe  and  with  the  general 
by  the  burning  railroad  had  left  persistent 
memories.  These  two  at  least  seemed  to  him 
to  have  centre,  character,  and  anchorage. 
They  stood  out  in  distinction.  They  had 
shape  and  color  and  definition,  and  a  certain 
inner  stature.  Together  with  this  distinctness 
and  stature  there  had  been  noticeable  in  both  a 
singular  absorption  in  something  not  them 
selves.  The  general  had  seemed  to  think  there 
was  more  point  in  his  work  than  in  himself, 
224 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

at  least  to  turn  to  his  work  as  if  he  thought  it 
best  to  act  on  that  belief — Daddy  Joe  to  have 
given  up  his  soul  to  wonder  and  awe  of  his 
visitor.  The  text  of  one  of  the  tracts  he  had 
given  to  Daddy  Joe  had  been,  "  He  that  loseth 
himself  shall  find  himself/'  and  he  remember 
ed  noticing  Daddy  Joe's  wonder  and  troubled 
look,  and  thinking  him  badly  lost.  It  was  a 
cryptic  kind  of  saying — "He  that  loseth  him 
self  shall  find  himself." 

This  business  by  the  Shenandoah,  this  close 
fingering  of  peril  and  card -play  between  life 
and  death,  both  parties  being  sharpers,  ought 
properly  to  be  absorbing  and  exciting.  To 
attain  distinctness,  how  could  one  be  better  else 
where  than  in  the  valley  of  the  Shenandoah, 
in  an  isolation  so  complete  from  all  whom  he 
met  from  day  to  day,  hostile  in  purpose  to  them 
all,  a  single  eddy  against  a  wide  current?  Yet, 
when  he  looked  within  himself  he  seemed  to  see 
a  space  merely  where  forms  flitted  through  and 
singing  gusts  of  wind  passed,  but  none  found 
a  home.  The  general  at  his  work  for  a  cause 
that  was  a  doomed  anachronism  was  some 
thing.  Daddy  Joe,  in  adoration  of  his  hollow 
demi-god  and  shamming  evangelist,  was  some 
thing.  "Who  or  what  am  I?  Is  there  any 
is  225 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

truth  or  any  lie  that  from  the  bottom  of  me  I 
believe,  any  goal  I  hope  for,  any  man  or  woman 
I  cling  to?"  One  pictured  the  individual  to  be 
a  kind  of  self-fed  fire.  One  denied  conventions 
of  the  mind  and  claimed  his  issue  to  be  his 
own,  his  solitary  pilgrimage  from  one  eternity 
to  another ;  he  would  look  about  him  as  he  went 
and  take  note,  neither  lose  himself  nor  cloud 
his  eye  nor  cumber  his  feet,  for  the  time  would 
be  short,  and  there  would  be  much  to  see.  Now, 
what  he  was  doing  and  had  done  was  nothing, 
for  he  did  not  care  about  it;  and  what  he  had 
felt  and  thought  was  little,  only  those  flitting 
forms  and  gusts  of  wind  that  made  a  stir  in 
their  passage  and  left  echoes  behind  them — 
some  sandy  sediment,  perhaps — some  changes 
in  the  mould  or  shell. 

If  men,  failing  to  find  the  infinite  and  the 
spirit  outside  of  themselves — anywhere  above 
or  beneath  or  around — concluded  it  must  be 
within,  there  lay  the  logic  of  their  introspec 
tion.  How,  then,  if  in  the  centre  of  that  "  with 
in"  were  found  only  an  echoing  space?  At  the 
touch  of  this  discovery  would  not  all  structured 
dreams  fall  suddenly  to  dust  and  ashes,  all 
illumined  purposes  lose  their  flush?  "  Be  your 
self/'  cried  the  latest  seers,  rising  from  the 
226 


"The     Debatable    Land" 

discouragement  of  faiths  faded  into  myths, 
an  ancient  sun  frightened  from  the  eastern 
skies  by  their  questioning.  "Maintain  your 
poise,  look  within,  for  there  hides  divinity  in 
that  holy  of  holies  of  a  man  of  which  his  body 
is  the  temple.  A  pilgrim  you  are,  from  the 
darkness  behind  to  the  mystery  before,  and  the 
universe  is  a  road  for  your  travelling  soul." 
"Be  myself!  Who  or  what  am  I?  The  holy  of 
holies  appears  empty,  and  no  altar  is  there, 
either,  nor  self -fed  fire/'  Was  the  universe 
so  mad  a  joke  as  to  be  a  road  merely  for  the 
travelling  of  such  bubbles,  blown  spherically 
with  tainted  air,  colored  with  solar  fantasies, 
apt  to  dissolve  suddenly  to  a  drop  of  soapy 
moisture  in  the  dust  by  some  such  accident 
as  was  probable  enough  in  the  valley  of  the 
Shenandoah? 

The  epochs  in  life,  then,  were  not  its  physical 
events,  but  crises  in  thought,  some  sudden  or 
gradual  conviction  or  disillusioning.  Gard 
felt  now  that  this  had  come  upon  him  gradually, 
beginning  from  the  Peninsular  campaign. 

No  doubt,   whatever  one  thought  was  the 

dwelling-place   of   divinity,    or    whatever    he 

called  the  one  thing  worth  while,  if  it  presently 

appeared  not  to  be  there,  there  was  always  a 

227 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

marvellous  emptiness  in  its  place,  a  world 
apparently  convicted  of  barrenness,  since  its 
growths  were  convicted  of  illusion — a  point  in 
experience  once  called  "the  Everlasting  No/' 
a  period  of  fretful  discontent.  It  did  not  seem 
probable  that  the  lost  law  and  divinity  were  at 
sanctuary  in  that  discontent. 

Meanwhile  in  the  valley  of  the  Shenandoah 
the  oak  foliage  kindled  and  smouldered  in  dull 
red,  as  if  its  approaching  death  were  a  matter 
of  pride  and  stately  celebration,  and  Gard  led 
a  singular  dual  existence,  one  side  of  which 
seemed  to  be  a  staring  at  a  topless  and  bottom 
less  distaste,  and  the  other  to  be  an  argument 
that  good  whiskey  was  cheaply  and  secretly 
distilled  in  certain  portions  of  western  Virginia, 
to  the  discomfiture  of  the  United  States — that, 
if  the  Confederate  army  would  purchase  arid 
absorb  enough  of  it,  the  capture  of  Washington 
would  become  immediately  probable. 

The  behavior,  the  schemes,  inventions  and 
discourses  of  this  secondary  personage  of  his 
creating  had  an  objective  interest.  It  seemed 
to  Gard  to  be  in  its  way  a  noteworthy  character, 
judged  as  a  piece  of  creative  fiction. 

It  was  modelled  on  Havering,  but  gathered 
details  from  day  to  day  and  perfected  its  sym- 
228 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

metry.  It  appeared  to  have  volition,  a  speech 
and  individual  oddities  all  its  own,  which  he 
was  hardly  aware  of  having  invented. 

Some  days  after  his  return  he  came  by  the 
Opequan  and  the  place  where  he  had  fallen 
headlong  in  the  road  with  the  man  of  the  band 
age.  He  turned  his  horse  into  the  bushes. 
The  body  lay  still  in  its  place.  The  "  secondary 
personage''  commented  aloud  in  character, 
and  to  Gard's  surprise. 

"  It  appears  you  didn'  furnish  that  cyarfully 
boiled  description." 

He  broke  boughs  and  threw  them  over  the 
body,  mounted  again  and  rode  on. 

"That's  the  injustice  of  circumstance." 

A  few  hundred  yards  beyond  he  met  a  detail 
of  soldiers,  halted  them,  and  said  to  the  officer : 

"  Do  you  see  that  white  birch?" 

"Yes." 

"Very  good.  Theah's  a  co'pse  of  a  day  or 
two  no'th  of  it  which  I  discove'd  accident'ly 
and  threw  over  it  a  tributo'y  leaf.  It  looked 
to  me,"  with  an  air  of  reminiscence  and  re 
spect,  "like  a  gentleman  that  might  have 
known  good  whiskey  in  his  time." 

"  Til  look  at  him.     Reckon  I  know  who  you 
are.     Haven't  captured  Washington  yet?" 
229 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

The  men  around  grinned. 

"The  difficulty,  seh,  with  the  management 
of  this  campaign,  is  its  impe'viousness  to  ideas. 
Good-mo'ning,  seh." 

It  was  the  first  week  in  November  when  he 
rode  across  the  Long  Bridge  into  Washington 
and  fastened  his  horse  to  a  tree  in  front  of  the 
War  Department. 

He  sent  in  his  name,  and  the  summons  came 
promptly.  He  entered  an  inner  office,  and  was 
alone  with  a  thick-set  man  with  a  grim  mouth, 
and  beard  falling  half-way  down  his  chest,  who 
rapidly  turned  the  leaves  of  a  book  of  entry. 

"Captain  Windham?"  he  said,  and  went  on 
turning  the  leaves. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"I have  received  three  despatches  from  you. 
September  30th,  by  an  old  negro.  Christian 
name,  Joe." 

"Daddy  Joe,"  murmured  Gard. 

"Not  at  all!     Simply  Joe." 

"Oh!  I  thought  it  was  Daddy,"  said  Gard, 
sadly. 

"Joe — simply   Joe.      October    isth,  by   an 

officer   of  General 's    brigade,  on  sick 

leave;  name,  Burton.     October  24th,  by  Army 
Post.     Harper's  Ferry.     Is  that  correct?" 
230 


"The     Debatable    Land" 

"Yes,  sir.  I'm  the  fourth.  I'm  dated  No 
vember  yth." 

"I  am  aware  of  the  date/'  said  the  other, 
sharply. 

He  seemed  to  suspect  some  frivolous  irony 
in  his  visitor,  a  lack  of  seriousness  and  respect, 
a  motion  of  humor  repellent  to  the  authorita 
tive  and  downright  atmosphere  of  that  office. 
Then  he  glanced  suddenly  at  the  calendar  and 
frowned. 

"You  are  mistaken,  sir.     It  is  the  6th/' 

Gard  dropped  his  eyes  to  his  torn  and  weather- 
stained  old  gray  hat,  and  turned  it  slowly 
around  his  finger. 

"It  comes  from  being  so  long  down  there/' 
he  said,  regretfully.  "  I  thought  their  calendar 
was  one  day  ahead  of  ours.  They  seemed  to 
get  there  about  one  day  ahead." 

The  other  glared  at  him  through  his  spec 
tacles,  then  said,  shortly: 

"I  will  take  your  information." 

After  the  questioning  and  writing  were  fin 
ished  he  continued: 

"I  will  forward  this  to  the  new  commander- 

in-chief,  appointed  yesterday,  the  5th" — with 

another  glance  at  the  calendar  for  security — 

"in  place  of  the  late  commander-in-chief,  re- 

231 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

lieved,"  and  looked  up  quickly  as  if  expect 
ing  to  find  some  revenge  or  satisfaction  in  his 
surprise.  But  Gard  did  not  seem  to  be  surprised 
or  interested.  He  looked  at  a  vigorous  clump 
of  hair  at  the  top  of  the  official's  head,  then 
down  at  his  old  hat  indifferently. 

"I  think  that  I  should  like  a  furlough." 

The  other  was  irritated,  almost  fierce. 

"  Send  in  your  application  and  I  will  see  that 
it  is  granted.  That's  all.  Good-day.  Captain 
Windham,  it  remains  for  me  to  say  that  you 
have  done  very  well — remarkably  well — and 
appear  to  be  exhausted  in  proportion.  I  repeat, 
you  have  done  very  well." 

"I  think"— Gard  paused  at  the  door— "I 
think  it  was  Daddy  Joe." 

"Good-day,  sir!" 

Gard  went  down  the  steps,  and  wondered  at 
his  caring  so  little  whether  he  had  done  well 
or  not.  He  did  not  know  why  he  had  wanted 
to  irritate  that  irritable  but  powerful  official. 
It  had  seemed  at  the  time  to  have  points  of 
interest.  Probably  if  one  cared  about  a  military 
career  it  would  not  be  wise  to  irritate  officials, 
and,  if  one  did  not,  it  lacked  interest. 

"He  thinks  himself  something,  that  one. 
But" — untying  his  horse — "I  suppose  he  is." 
232 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

And  he  rode  down  the  great  avenue,  whistling, 
"The  Campbells  are  coming — tra-la!" 

Hundreds  of  flags  hung  from  windows  and 
waved  over  buildings.  The  white  dome  of  the 
capitol  rose  up  in  the  distance  against  the  sky. 
A  regimental  band  was  playing  a  quickstep 
somewhere  near.  Towards  the  river  the  trunk 
of  the  half -built  monument  stood,  purposing 
in  time  to  commemorate  one  thought  to  have 
been  something  in  his  time. 

"This  sort  of  thing  is  no  great  success. 
There  must  be  something  wrong  with  me. 
I  think  I'll  go  to  Italy.  Rlwmes!  What,  ho! 
I  will  be  a  poet.  Let  the  Campbells  come,  let 
the  Campbells  go.  It's  a  foolish  tune/'  Why 
so  enthusiastic  at  bowling  over  one's  inof 
fensive  brethren  in  mortality?  That  sounded 
like  Jack  Mavering,  another  homeless  advent 
urer  and  piece  of  fragmentary  pottery,  who 
did  not  care,  either,  about  the  commander  of 
the  Army  of  the  Potomac,  and  might  be  taking 
lunch  now  in  that  restaurant  with  the  gilt 
sign,  the  resort  of  correspondents  and  small 
officers.  Italy!  The  Citronen  bliihen  there, 
and  one  was  either  a  monk  or  an  artist,  or  in 
love  with  an  almond  -  eyed  shepherdess  —  was 
something  with  a  denomination,  at  least,  and 
233 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

an  ideal  for  a  perquisite.  He  would  go  and 
tell  Helen  and  Mrs.  Havering.  Helen  would 
dislike  his  not  caring,  and  say  so,  in  fact,  with 
vigor.  He  might  omit  it  and  enlarge  on 
Italy. 

"I    wonder    what    she'll  say?    I    shouldn't 
like  it  if  she  looked  disappointed/' 
234 


Chapter  XVIII 

In  which  there  is  Discovered  a  Compunction 

THE  iron-gray  horse  —  the  former  property 
of  one  "Miss  Meely,"  an  existence  in  rumor, 
suspected  of  being  quick  -  tempered  —  turned 
into  an  alley  that  led  past  the  windows  of  the 
restaurant  with  the  gilt  sign  to  a  livery 
stable. 

The  restaurant  was  full  of  the  bustle  of  hur 
rying  waiters  and  the  hum  of  conversation. 
Mavering  sat  half-way  down  the  line  of  tables, 
the  remains  of  his  meal  before  him.  He  was 
leaning  back,  looking  peacefully  at  the  ceiling, 
when  Gard  came,  sat  down  at  the  other  side 
of  the  table,  and  held  out  his  hand.  Mavering 
took  his  eyes  from  the  ceiling  and  said,  mildly, 
" Angel  and  ministers  of  grace!  I  prepared 
an  obituary  for  you  a  month  ago/'  He  drew 
a  thin,  bony  hand  from  his  pocket  and  stretched 
it  across  the  table.  Gard  gave  his  order  to 
the  waiter  before  he  commented. 

"Why  did  you  do  that?" 
235 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

"Ah!  Why?  If  I  remember  the  circum 
stances  correctly  they  were  these/' 

Gard  listened  silently  while  Havering  told 
the  story  with  niceties  of  detail.  Finally  he 
said: 

"I  don't  see  what  Map  did  that  for." 

"  Don't  you?  Then  neither  do  I,  but  in  the 
highway  of  interpretation  I  should  say  he 
doesn't  like  you  to  be  alive — possibly  has  a 
grudge." 

"He  must  have,  but  I  didn't  know  it  be 
fore." 

And  later,  when  they  were  in  the  street  that 
climbed  to  the  capitol,  and  seemed  to  come  to 
an  end  there,  finally,  in  adoration  of  its  sunlit 
dome,  Gard  asked: 

"Do  you  know  where  I'm  going?" 

"The  question  offers  unlimited  interest.  I 
take  it  to  be  rhetorical.  I  do  not." 

"  I'm  going  to  look  for  Mrs.  Mavering  and  a 
young  lady  who  is  with  her.  They're  nursing 
in  one  of  the  hospitals,  or  were  last  winter. 
Did  you  know  it?" 

"I  did  not." 

"Going  with  me?" 

"I'll  walk  along  and  make  up  my  mind." 

After  a  few  moments'  silence: 
236 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

"It  was  hard  luck  for  Mrs.  Havering  to 
marry  you/' 

"You  speak  truth." 

"You  didn't  boil  down  to  much/' 

"  Blanked  little.  What's  your  intricate  mean 
ing?" 

"I  was  thinking  of  Map/' 

They  did  not  find  them  till  the  next  day. 
There  were  ten  or  twelve  hospitals  in  and  about 
the  city,  some  of  them  in  the  suburbs  and  far 
apart.  Certain  doctors  knew  the  two  nurses, 
and  one  directed  them  to  a  hospital  which  turned 
out  to  be  a  kind  of  military  city  with  streets  and 
sentries;  but  they  were  not  there.  The  hos 
pitals  were  all  working  smoothly  at  the  time. 
There  had  been  no  large  battle  since  Antietam, 
and  there  were  few  of  those  grim,  dreary,  and 
confused  scenes  which  at  times  made  the  hos 
pitals  seem  sterner  battle-fields  than  any  at 
the  front.  Nevertheless  Mavering  felt  and  ex 
pressed  a  sense  of  injury. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  I'm  as  tough  as  all 
this!" 

"I  haven't  said  anything  about  your  tough 
ness.    Maybe  you  are.    We'll  try  Mount  Pleas 
ant  now.     That    will  be   the  last  to-night." 
And  they  rode  away  from  the  military  city. 
237 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

"  You  know  her, ' '  continued  Mavering.  "  She 
is  what  you  would  call,  after  duly  considering 
the  adjective,  select.  She  doesn't  like  realism, 
raw  humanity,  and  irregular  event.  She  de 
sires  humanity  to  be  cooked  and  served  in 
courses,  even  to  be  ordered  up  to  the  rules  of 
art.  By  which  figurative  language  I  mean 
to  say  that  I  don't  see,  that  no  ready  inter 
pretation  presents  itself,  that  I'm  interested  to 
know  who  persuaded  her  to  take  a  ticket  to 
the  suburbs  of  hell." 

"You'll  know  if  we  find  them." 

"It  was,  then,  this  Miss?—" 

"Bourn." 

"Bourn.  Exactly.  Of  that  undiscovered 
country.  Having  discovered  who  induced  the 
buying  of  the  ticket  aforesaid,  there  remains 
how  she  did  it,  this  Miss — a — Bourn." 

Late  the  following  day  they  came  to  a  hospital 
that  had  been  a  warehouse  and  stood  on  rising 
ground,  a  little  back  from  the  river,  where  a 
white  steamer  was  lying  at  the  wharf.  There 
were  sheds  around  the  building,  and  new  wooden 
steps  built  up  to  the  door  where  the  freight  had 
once  been  discharged. 

A  man  at  the  door  said  Mrs.  Mavering  and 
Miss  Bourn  were  within,  and  took  their  names. 
238 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

Beyond  him  they  saw  accurately  straight  rows 
of  cots,  each  with  a  head  at  one  end.  In  a  few 
moments  he  came  back  and  said  the  two  nurses 
would  be  off  duty  in  an  hour. 

They  walked  to  and  fro,  past  their  horses 
fastened  in  one  of  the  sheds,  till  the  dusk  grew 
around  them.  The  hospital  windows  were 
lit.  Lights  began  to  gleam  beyond  the  river 
and  the  flat  lands.  A  mist  rose  and  clung  to 
the  water,  crouched  and  ghostly.  There  was 
no  moon,  but  the  stars  were  out,  and  one  could 
hear  the  lapping  of  the  cold  water  among  the 
reeds.  They  did  not  see  Rachel  and  Helen 
come  from  the  wide  door  down  the  new  wooden 
steps,  or  notice  them  till  they  were  near,  coming 
hooded  and  cloaked  through  the  dusk. 

Mavering  admitted  to  himself  a  personal  and 
direct  surprise.  His  last  memories  of  Rachel 
were  of  tears,  and  then  pale  dignity  and  a 
kind  of  fine  repellence.  But  she  did  not  betray 
the  past  in  manner.  He  could  not  see  her  face. 

She  said: 

"  There  will  be  scallops  for  supper,  gentlemen, 
and  then  may  we  have  your  adventures?" 

Mavering  found  himself  walking  beside  her, 
and  admitting  his  surprise  to  be  personal  and 
direct.     Presently  he  picked  up  his   fluency. 
239 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

"I  judge  you  would  like  to  avoid  reminis 
cence.  In  the  interests  of  clarity  and  calm 
weather,  however,  allow  me  to  say  that  I  don't 
intend  to  bother  you;  I'm  a  statue  personify 
ing  resignation/' 

"  Thank  you,  Jack.  There  is  where  we  live, 
Helen  and  I." 

It  was  a  brick  house  with  a  white  door,  two 
slender  pillars  before  the  door,  and  low,  pleas 
ant  windows.  It  overlooked  the  river,  on 
which  a  gray  layer  of  mist  now  brooded.  Only 
a  few  houses  were  near,  and  a  grove  of  trees 
lay  beyond. 

"  We  were  in  the  city  last  winter  and  spring, 
and  in  another  hospital,  till  a  doctor  who  had 
charge  sent  us  out  here,  in  July,  and  found  this 
for  us.  Helen  looked  so  badly.  She  sympa 
thizes  so  tremendously.  She  grew  very  thin 
and  white.  They  don't  bring  them  here  direct 
ly  from  the  fields,  you  know.  Most  of  them 
here  are  getting  better.  He  said  we  would  be 
quite  as  much  use.  Do  you  know,  it  is  very 
nice  to  be  of  use." 

"Do  I  gather  that,  apart  from  the  charm  of 
utility — a  thing  that  never  appealed  to  me 
by  its  own  virtue — do  I  correctly  infer  that  you 
like  it?" 

240 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

Mrs.  Havering  opened  the  door.  The  lamp 
in  the  hall  shone  across  her  face  as  she  turned 
with  a  curious  smile. 

"You  don't  change,  do  you?" 

If  Helen  surprised  Gard  it  was  not  with 
change,  but  with  that  same  vividness  of  her 
personality;  the  tone  of  her  voice,  as  defi 
nite  as  a  musical  theme;  the  swift  step;  the 
nameless  something  about  her,  impetuous, 
challenging,  demanding,  that  said,  "This 
is  Helen — not  a  resemblance  or  recollection 
merely,  but  one  who  cannot  be  made  an 
other/'  He  was  surprised  by  the  flood  of  his 
recollections  of  her  and  by  the  fact  that, 
tested  by  the  present,  they  were  all  found  to 
be  true. 

"  Lady  Rachel  says  there  are  scallops.  It's 
glorious  of  you  to  come.  We  know  what  you 
did  in  the  spring,  and  we  have  a  piano,  but  you 
ought  to  have  an  organ  to  tell  about  it,  it's  so 
big.  Is  it  fun  to  be  a  hero?" 

"That's  an  odd  idea.  I  thought  you  might 
tell  me  who  I  am,  or  whether  I'm  something 
at  all;  but  I  don't  recognize  that.  Can't  you 
do  any  better?" 

They  followed  Mavering  and  Rachel,  and 
came  to  the  white  door,  that  stood  open  for  them. 

16  241 


«The    Debatable    Land" 

Helen  looked  up  suddenly,  but  did  not  smile, 
only  said: 

"You've  changed,  haven't  you?" 

Within  he  noticed  Mrs.  Mavering's  touch 
everywhere.  Wherever  she  was,  things  about 
her  seemed  to  alter  their  practical  bearing  and 
take  on  a  difference.  A  plain  table  became  lux 
urious  by  virtue  of  something  thrown  across 
it.  A  tall  jar  was  placed  on  the  painted  mantel 
piece,  and  the  mantel-piece  itself  became  rem 
iniscent. 

After  supper,  where  the  scallops  did  not  fail, 
the  four  gathered  before  the  grate.  A  fire 
crackled,  and  the  slender  jar  stood  above,  in  re 
minder  of  realms  where  form  and  color  were 
the  only  deities.  Gard  thought  Mrs.  Mavering 
had  changed.  Helen's  pallor  and  thinness 
did  not  touch  her  imperative  identity.  Mrs. 
Mavering  had  changed  less  in  looks  than  in 
tone.  There  was  less  languor  and  withdrawal. 
As  to  the  relations  between  her  and  Jack, 
they  did  not  seem  to  be  uncomfortable  at  pres 
ent,  and  were  no  business  of  his. 

"Helen   tells   me   I'm   changed/'    he   said. 

"Do  you  remember  the  night  when  I  came  to 

see  you  instead  of  playing  in  Saint  Mary's, 

and  Helen  played  she  was  a  valiant  knight 

242 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

and  you  were  a  lady  hidden  in  a  tower,  and 
I  offered  to  be  the  ogre  who  was  said  to  have  a 
tower  of  his  own  somewhere  to  be  proud  in? 
It  was  nearly  two  years  ago.  I  think  the 
knight  is  still  charging,  and  wanting  to  make 
wrong  right  by  sticking  a  lance  into  it.  But 
the  lady  has  come  out  of  her  tower  and  gone 
questing  with  the  knight,  and  doesn't  seem 
quite  the  same.  And  the  ogre  has  found  the 
'somewhere'  of  his  tower  even  more  vague 
than  it  was  then,  or,  if  he  has  found  it,  it  seems 
to  be  empty.  Nothing  lives  there  but  winds 
and  ghosts  now/' 

"What  have  you  been  doing?"  asked  Helen. 
"  We  hear  stories  of  other  people,  but  we  haven't 
any  to  tell.  But  I  don't  understand  what  you 
mean." 

"What  I've  been  doing  hasn't  much  to  do 
with  it.  But  I'll  tell  about  that,  if  you  like. 
You'd  better  have  Mavering's  first." 

"Singular  anchorite!"  Havering  murmured. 
"  Why?" 

"You'll  tell  it  better." 

"Without  doubt.  But  a  reason  for  waiting 
occurs  to  me." 

"Don't  you  want  to  smoke?"  asked  Rachel, 
suddenly. 

243 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

"  It  is  not  what  I  referred  to,  but  it  proves  your 
knowledge  that  my  motives  are  physical  and 
uninspired." 

In  Gard's  narrative  there  was  no  mention  of 
Map,  and  the  discovery  of  the  first  disguise 
was  given  to  another  source.  It  was  told 
simply,  rather  indifferently.  When  it  was  fin 
ished  Havering  remarked : 

"The  anchorite's  style  has  the  classical 
merits  of  austerity." 

It  was  part  of  Mavering's  travelling-kit  and 
baggage  of  the  nomad,  this  gift  of  his,  to  be 
among  tellers  of  stories,  rare  and  excellent. 
For  soldiers  around  camp-fires,  old  women  in 
doorways,  gentlemen  at  clubs  and  dinner-ta 
bles,  newsboys  in  the  city,  school  -  children 
in  the  country  with  tin  lunch -pails,  farmer, 
tramp,  hod -carrier,  doctor,  clergyman,  black 
leg,  maiden  in  silk  or  gingham — it  was  all  one ; 
they  forgot  themselves  and  country  and  kin 
and  present  purpose  till  he  was  through.  The 
"Ancient  Mariner's"  spell  was  not  peculiar 
to  that  mariner.  It  is  more  ancient  than  he, 
older  than  books,  older  than  written  language, 
older  than  any  city  in  pyramid  or  institution, 
practised  among  hunters  of  wild  beasts  on 
the  site  of  Damascus,  and  among  those  who 
244 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

first  scratched  the  fat  soil  of  the  Mesopotamian 
valley,  the  spell  of  the  teller.  His  method  is 
anything  convenient,  a  ballad  chanted  to  a 
harp,  or  a  printed  book.  He  speaks  his  mind 
and  says  what  seems  good  to  him  as  he  goes,  for 
the  basis  of  it  is  the  story,  and  the  force  is 
the  force  of  the  man.  Havering  practised  the 
primitive  and  personal  method,  and  was  heaven- 
born  to  it. 

His  narrative  ran  from  the  beginning  of  the 
summer,  when  he  had  come  south  as  a  corre 
spondent  and  joined  the  army  in  the  Peninsula, 
went  on  with  easy  gait  and  leaping  of  spaces, 
gave  glimpses  and  incidents  by  the  way,  drop 
ped  out  a  month,  fell  upon  the  middle  of  Septem 
ber,  and  drew  to  a  close. 

"Wherever  I  went  that  day  over  the  hills, 
behind  the  guns  I  saw  that  cornfield,  or  else 
where  the  cornfield  was  underneath  and  not  to 
be  seen  itself  on  account  of  lying  in  the  middle 
of  explosion,  with  wickedness  and  confusion 
on  one  side,  and  sin  and  the  reward  thereof 
on  the  other,  all  blackguarding  each  other 
across  it,  so  that  it  was  covered  with  their 
blasphemous  breath;  till  I  had  a  superstition 
about  that  cornfield,  and  said,  'If  corn  could 
be  gathered  therefrom,  and  corn  whiskey  made 
245 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

thereof,  it  would  be  a  chemical  anarchy  of  the 
choicest,  a  combative  distillation  unexcelled, 
a  superior  brand  of  whiskey/  It  was  dusk 
when  I  came  to  the  cornfield  at  last,  and  the 
battle  had  gone  to  sleep  in  its  cradle.  The 
stretcher-men  were  in  the  corn,  and  they  told 
me  to  ride  around  the  edge  where  the  mess 
wasn't  so  thick.  Their  idea  seemed  to  be  good. 
So  that  I  never  went  into  that  cornfield,  though 
it  was  probably  different  from  all  the  other 
cornfields,  but  came  around  into  a  road  beyond 
it.  There  were  men  burning  rails  for  camp-fires, 
and  the  woods  were  black,  and  the  anchorite 
was  strolling  along,  looking  up  at  the  young 
moon,  same  way  he  always  did/' 

Havering  paused  a  moment  and  puffed  his 
cigar,  took  it  out  and  looked  at  it,  and  deepened 
his  deep  voice.  "I  search  in  vain  among  the 
sere  and  yellow  leaves  of  memory,  whether  it 
was  ever  in  me  to  suck  the  end  of  a  moonbeam 
in  place  of  a  cigar/' 

He  appealed  to  Rachel,  who  answered  cheer 
fully  and  surprised  him  again: 

"Oh  yes,  it  was,  and  so  it  must  be 
still/' 

"He's  a  hollow  fraud,  you  know,"  Gard 
said.  "He  sucks  moonbeams  through  his 
246 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

cigar,  and  puffs  them  out  of  his  mouth."  And 
Helen  gasped. 

"It's  tremendous!" 

But  it  seemed  to  her,  putting  together  the 
two  narratives,  that  she  might  make  a  parable. 
For  in  Mavering's  story  she  seemed  to  see 
colored  lights  flashed  skilfully  on  a  stage 
with  curious  effect,  a  search-light  swinging  its 
glare  so  that  one  scene  after  another  leaped 
out  of  the  dark  and  vanished  again,  a  pleasure 
taken  in  the  mere  shift  and  play,  the  change 
and  tumult.  The  narrator  walked  in  the 
midst,  approving  of  the  noise,  patronizing  he 
roism  and  sudden  death,  admiring  the  scenic 
effect  of  the  fire  that  splashed  and  scattered 
around  him.  It  was  all  color  and  sound,  and 
no  real  interpretation  beneath.  It  meant  noth 
ing  in  the  end.  In  Gard's  story,  though  the 
tumult  was  great  and  the  dangers  greater, 
the  scenes  painted  clearly  though  more  coldly, 
and  with  fewer  details;  yet  he  seemed  not  to 
care  about  them  so,  but  to  be  looking  wistfully 
beyond  for  an  interpretation  and  not  able  to 
find  it — not  sure  that  there  was  one;  fancying 
there  must  be,  somewhere,  something  to  make 
it  worth  while. 

She  sat  in  her  old  place  at  Mrs.  Mavering's 
247 


"The     Debatable     Land" 

feet  and  turned  the  matter  over,  and  thought 
it  strange. 

It  surprised  Gard,  in  watching  her,  that  he 
remembered  so  much,  so  many  little  shining 
points  of  detail  about  her — as  she  had  looked 
in  the  house,  under  the  apse  of  Saint  Mary's, 
sitting  so,  in  a  white  dress,  a  blue  ribbon  at  her 
throat,  and  the  fire-light  shining  on  her  yellow 
hair.  And  Mrs.  Mavering  used  to  wear  dark- 
red  dresses  always,  and  suggest  tragedy  with 
out  being  aware  of  it.  They  both  wore  black 
now,  and  starched,  white  aprons.  Mrs.  Maver 
ing,  in  some  inward  way,  seemed  more  cheerful, 
more  like  one  gifted  with  health  and  humorous 
philosophy.  She  was  astonishingly  beautiful. 
Helen  had  grown  white  and  thin.  How  delicate 
and  slim  the  hands  looked  that  were  clasped 
around  her  knee!  She  used  to  have  a  sinewy 
grip  for  a  girl.  Everything  about  her  declared 
personality.  It  always  had,  and  still  did. 
Only,  something  or  other  seemed  pathetic  now. 
Morgan  Map  was  said  to  be  engaged  to  her, 
and  would  probably  boil  down  badly.  There 
was  pathos  there.  That  vast  primeval  brute 
had  run  his  neck  into  a  noose,  by-the-way, 
only  it  would  not  do  to  string  him  up  if  she 
cared  for  him,  though  it  might  be  a  blessing 
248 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

to  her  in  the  long  run.  Mrs.  Havering  might 
have  an  opinion  on  that.  What  Map's  grudge 
may  have  been  did  not  seem  to  Gard  of  any 
great  interest.  He  had  had  trouble  with  him 
once  about  some  commissary.  Morgan  had 
looked  murder,  and  uttered  white-hot  language, 
and  Gard  had  "corralled"  the  commissary. 
The  man  must  have  a  grisly  disposition  if  that 
were  his  "grudge." 

Thinking  of  Map,  then,  his  big,  harsh-boned 
face,  mighty  hands,  massiveness,  and  "grisly 
disposition,"  he  glanced  at  Helen  again,  winced, 
and  started. 

The  shock  went  shivering  through  flesh  and 
bone.  It  hurt.  He  said,  aloud,  "Oh,  that 
won't  do!" 

He  found  himself  on  his  feet,  and  the  others 
looking  surprised. 

The  piano  suggested  an  excuse,  and  he 
sprang  across  the  room. 

"I  haven't  touched  one  in  a  year." 

But  his  fingers  trembled  on  the  keys.  He 
had  not  seen  his  nerve  shaken  like  that  since 
his  first  battle,  which  opened  for  him  with  a 
shell  bursting  in  a  mud -bank.  It  plastered 
him  with  mud,  stood  him  on  his  head,  and 
shook  his  nerve  admirably. 
249 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

But  this — Morgan  Map — Helen — the  pathos 
of  it — the  hideous  incongruity — the  beast  and 
the  pit  and  our  Lady  of  Pity  and  Purity! 
Oh,  Madonna,  over  the  altar  of  a  little  white 
washed  chapel,  at  whose  tender  feet  men  poured 
out  daily  the  passion  of  their  souls  like  water! 
Years,  years,  so  many  years  ago,  and  one 
Gard  Windham  creeping  into  the  empty  chapel 
at  dawn,  sobbing  for  the  nameless  heartache 
and  the  groping  loneliness,  and  Madonna  was 
over  the  altar,  pale-faced,  in  silver  -  and  -  blue 
robe,  who  whispered  to  his  sobbing  prayer, 
"The  organ!  play!"  Then  he  played  and 
forgot  in  the  gray  dawn,  till  the  chapel  was 
full  of  presences,  and  the  bonus  Deus  came 
behind  the  altar  and  agreed  with  Our  Lady 
to  be  kind  to  Gard,  and  not  let  his  sins  frighten 
him  too  badly.  How  he  loved  her  then — Ma 
donna!  That  was  Gard  Windham!  He  was 
real!  What  was  he  now?  Swept  down  under 
the  years,  the  thinking  and  working,  the  flood 
waves  of  the  big  world — and  now — Morgan 
Map!  "I  haven't  prayed  in  long,  Madonna, 
but  she's  too  slim  and  brave  and  yellow-haired, 
and  made  from  the  beginning  of  her  days  to 
be  blessed  and  guarded  from  the  slime  and 
stain,  the  red-eyed  animal  and  the  pitiless  fist/' 
250 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

It  was  worse — why,  Havering  had  points  of 
decency,  and,  besides,  Mrs.  Mavering  was  not — 
"I  haven't  prayed,  Madonna.  1  don't  know 
where  you  are.  But  call  the  bonus  Deus, 
for  the  beast  climbs  the  stars.  Ora  pro  nobis, 
for  Helen — for  me.  Or  save  the  girl,  and  let 
me  go.  It  doesn't  matter." 

He  felt  that  he  had  never  played  before  like 
that  night.  The  piano  seemed  to  tremble 
under  the  fingers,  to  thud  and  flash,  and  the 
old  fire  flooded  his  nerves. 

He  stumbled  blindly  on  the  way  to  the  shed 
where  the  horses  were  fastened. 

"Do  something  for  me,  Jack.  Tell  Mrs. 
Mavering  about  that  Map  business.  Tell  her 
she  must  save  that  girl.  It  won't  do." 

"  What  in — what's  your  intricate  meaning?" 

"Map,  man!  He  has  a  hold  on  her.  You 
see  what  he  is." 

"  I  do  not.  But  I  see — I  begin  to  have  a  glim 
mer  as  to  —  in  fact,  I  take  it  you  have  an  un- 
derhold,  anchorite.  Go  in  and  win." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Gard, 
dully. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"  It  doesn't  matter.     I  am  going  to  throw 
my  furlough  and  join  the  army." 
251 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

"When?" 

"To-morrow." 

Havering   whistled,  and  then  swore  softly. 

"Why?" 

"I'm  no  better  than  you  are.  What  busi 
ness  have  you  and  I  in  heaven  with  our  damned 
private  job  politics?  Haven't  you  learned  that 
yourself?" 

They  rode  away  towards  the  city,  and  sepa 
rated  at  a  corner  lit  dimly  by  a  street  lamp. 
Gard  put  his  horse  to  a  gallop  and  clattered 
away. 

252 


Chapter  XIX 

In  which  Windham  Drops   Out  of   the  Fight  —  and 
Havering  Remarks  on  Human  Adaptability 

THERE  was  a  steep  hill-side,  and  below  it  a 
swift  river,  on  the  left  the  little  village  of  Fal- 
mouth  huddled  in  a  gully,  and  beyond  the 
village  a  higher  hill,  with  a  white  house  on 
the  crest.  Across  the  river,  and  farther  down, 
the  town  of  Fredericksburg  was  on  fire  in  places, 
ruins  here  and  there  smoking  lazily.  From 
the  town  it  was  half  a  mile  of  meadow-land, 
hollowed  and  hillocked  but  flat  in  its  main  re 
sult,  to  the  line  of  low  hills,  where  the  smoke 
rested  thick  and  white,  and  the  artillery  did 
not  rest  at  all,  but  growled  and  yelled  unpaci- 
fied.  Certain  regiments  had  watched  since 
noon  from  this  hill,  seen  column  after  column 
go  over  the  dipping  meadows,  and  sometimes 
a  half,  sometimes  a  third,  come  back.  About 
four  they  marched  down  through  the  huddled 
village,  crossed  on  a  pontoon  bridge  into  Fred 
ericksburg,  and  drew  up  beyond  the  town. 
253 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

The  shells  shrieked  over  them.  One  exploded 
against  a  little  wooden  shanty,  scattering 
splinters  and  dust.  Two  or  three  men  dropped. 
One  of  them  sat  up  at  Gard's  feet  and  rubbed 
his  face. 

"Are  you  hurt?" 

"No,  I'm  scared." 

"That's  nothing." 

"No,  that's  nothing." 

The  little  cabin  took  fire.  The  flames  crept 
up  the  dry,  worm-eaten  boards.  The  men 
turned  and  watched  them. 

A  young  lieutenant,  who  was  small,  and  had 
a  round,  jolly  face,  came  and  walked  beside 
Gard. 

"You  see,  those  other  fellows  seemed  to 
lose  about  two-thirds ;  so  a  fellow  will  be  pretty 
apt  to  go  in  and  stay  there.  About  two  to 


one." 


"  About  that.  But  the  old  man  might  mean 
somebody  to  go  in  and  stay  there  alive.  He 
might  have  that  idea.  Yours  isn't  inspir 
ing." 

"Oh,  I  only  meant — I  was  thinking  you 
might  let  my  people  know  if  I'm  potted." 

"All  right." 

"  I'll  do  the  same  if—" 
254 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

"No  matter,  Billy.  I  haven't  any.  Look 
out  for  your  end  men.  They're  nervous/' 

In  a  few  moments  the  column  was  gone, 
scurrying  away  over  hollows  and  flat  stretches. 
Gard  lay  on  his  face  near  the  stone  foundations 
and  smoking  ashes  of  a  barn  in  a  field.  "  Out 
of  this  fight/'  he  thought,  and  turned  over. 
His  muscles  seemed  to  have  all  become  dissolved 
and  loose.  He  lifted  the  edge  of  his  coat  and 
looked  under.  "It  looks  like  a  bad  one/' 
The  blood  did  not  flow  steadily,  but  leaped  and 
was  bright  red.  "  It  ought  to  be  picked  up. 
It  is  an  artery.  If  I  knew  how  I  might  pick 
it  up!"  It  was  a  slanting  trench,  indefinitely 
deep,  and  pumping  up  blood  from  the  bottom. 
There  must  be  smashed  bone  in  it  somewhere. 
You  could  tell  from  the  slant  the  direction  of 
the  point  where  the  shell  had  burst.  Two 
other  men  lay  near  by,  one  of  them  still  living, 
but  with  the  top  of  his  head  crushed;  he  was 
kicking  a  hole  in  the  ground  with  his  heel. 

"I  might  try." 

He  made  an  effort,  and  in  a  moment  his  hands 
dropped  back  on  the  grass  again,  hands  red, 
wet,  and  feeble.  The  immense  noise  of  the 
cannonading  became  a  hum  in  his  ears  and 
then  was  silent.  A  little  white  cloud  in  the 
255 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

sky  seemed  to  spread  over  the  blue  and  turn 
gray.  He  closed  his  e^yes. 

It  would  be  like  this,  after  all.  It  had  always 
seemed  a  difficulty,  a  knotted  problem  that 
speculation  could  not  untie.  It  did  not  seem 
like  a  knot  or  a  difficulty  now,  but  more  like  a 
solution,  a  smoothing,  a  quiet  explanation. 
One  thought  life  so  difficult  and  death  the 
hardest  knot  in  its  logic,  but  if  one  found  death 
to  be  the  answer  instead  of  the  worst  difficulty, 
looked  upon  in  that  way  it  might  even  seem 
to  be  a  simple  answer.  A  gradual  oblivion — 
not  exactly  that — a  blending  of  noises  into 
chords  and  glassy'  harmonies — it  was  more 
like  that. 

The  noises  of  the  field  were  all  gone,  and 
there  was  no  more  earth  or  sky,  no  men  visible 
running  past  with  rifles,  no  roar,  echo,  con 
cussion,  nor  moan  of  the  flying  missiles.  But 
the  silent  vacancy  was  filling  again  with  other 
forms  and  sounds,  whispering  voices,  faces  that 
leaned  and  smiled,  others  that  threatened, 
some  that  turned  from  him  and  cried  out  and 
fled.  One  of  those  that  fled  was  the  Father 
Superior.  One  of  those  that  leaned  and  smiled 
was  Helen.  But  there  did  not  appear  any  rea 
son  for  either,  unless  the  Father  Superior  might 

256 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

be  frightened  at  seeing  what  a  lost  soul  looked 
like  face  to  face.  Helen  wore  a  broad,  white 
collar.  Afterwards  she  came  again  with  a 
blue  ribbon  around  her  neck,  dressed  in  white, 
looking  fragile,  and  said,  "I'll  fight  for  you; 
I  don't  care  who  they  are."  Who  were  "  they  "? 
Most  of  the  forms  were  strangers,  but  Fritz 
Moselle  sat  at  a  cloudy  organ  that  pealed  with 
thunder  and  shot  lightning  from  the  top  of 
its  precipice  of  pipes.  And  he  played  till  the 
yellow  stars  jumped  down  and  sang  anthems, 
and  Mavering  came  stalking  after  them,  say 
ing,  "They  are  an  interesting  and  peculiar 
people  on  that  secular  comet  up  there,  and  the 
best  liars  I  know;  in  the  pursuit  of  which  in 
terest,  0  Fritz,  I'm  going  to  pick  up  my  kit 
and  go  back."  Mrs.  Mavering  would  not 
go,  and  Madonna  said,  "Be  kind  to  Gard,"  to 
the  bonus  Deus,  who  seemed  puzzled.  Helen 
came  and  sobbed  over  him  and  stretched  out 
her  hands.  He  caught  at  them,  missed,  and 
fell  several  years  through  spaces  and  spaces. 
Innumerable  faces  were  plastered  against  the 
sides  of  the  pit,  innumerable  lips  cried  to  him, 
but  he  thought,  "  They  all  have  issues  of  their 
own."  A  great  voice,  heavy,  stolid,  and  cold, 
called,  "Eternity  around,  divinity  within," 
'?  257 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

but  no  one  really  agreed  with  it.  A  gust  of 
wind  drove  down  the  pit  and  blew  him  like  a 
dried  leaf,  while  he  cried  out  helplessly,  and 
fled  another  year  before  the  wind,  till  a  slim 
hand  gripped  his  wrist  and  stopped  him.  The 
grip  was  sinewy.  The  gusts  and  the  stolid 
voice  went  driving  past  them  down  the  pit. 
It  was  useless  to  count  the  faces  plastered 
against  the  sides.  He  could  not  raise  his 
hands;  to  raise  his  eyelids  was  a  dragging 
effort,  sad  and  slow.  It  was  night.  The 
air  was  damp  and  cold.  They  were  carrying 
him  on  a  stretcher.  Their  steps  sounded  on 
the  pontoon  bridge.  The  water  rippled  below, 
or  else  it  was  the  rain  beating  on  the  tent, 
murmuring,  murmuring.  Helen  was  saying 
"You  must  stay/'  and  held  his  wrist,  and  he 
said,  "  I  never  saw  anything  make  up  its  mind 
the  way  you  do/'  so  that  they  both  laughed, 
and  the  pit  echoed  like  a.  bass  drum  which 
made  them  laugh  more,  and  then  echoed  with 
infinite  thrilling  moans  which  frightened  them. 
And  he  whispered  in  the  darkness,  "It's  fun 
we're  in  the  same  pit,"  and  she  whispered 
back,  "Yes,  gorgeous." 

"  It  fills  me  with  benignant  admiration  " — so 

258 


"The     Debatable    Land" 

reads  one  of  Mavering's  articles,  dated  "  This 
2 1st  of  December,  one  mile,  possibly  two — 
Heaven  help  us  and  call  it  three — from  the  Rap- 
pahannock,"  and  entitled  "Illustrated  Specula 
tions" — "It  fills  me  with  benignant  admira 
tion,  this  human  adaptability.  I  have  seen 
to-day  the  troops  returning  from  what  they 
called,  with  apparent  justice, '  The  Mud  March/ 
a  futile  procession,  with  no  other  result  than 
mud.  For  all  night  had  the  wind  howled, 
the  rain  smitten  them  compositely  with  sleet 
and  snow;  they  had  splashed  since  dawn  in 
profound  mud,  and  are  now  partially  dried  and 
partially  comfortable  in  ingenious  ways,  but 
in  the  main  still  wearing  mud,  finding  them 
selves  adaptable  to  mud,  arguing  that  mud 
adds  a  certain  density  to  clothing,  a  casing 
and  protection  to  the  features  against  the  at 
mospheric  and  social  hostility  of  Virginia. 
I  have  seen  the  author  of  Leaves  of  Grass 
in  a  brigade  hospital  camp,  holding  the  hand 
of  a  bearded,  piratical-looking  stranger  from 
Michigan,  who  will  die  to-night  and  without 
doubt  adapt  himself  to  whatever  shall  be  his 
lot.  But  this  poet  and  tilter  at  conventions 
— what  convention  he  is  tilting  at  now  seems 
obscure,  what  poetry  he  meditates  with  lines 
259 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

of  ungainly  sprawl.  I  merely  record  that  he 
sits  in  a  brigade  hospital  tent,  holding  the  hand, 
hour  after  hour,  of  one  whom  he  knows  not 
from  mythical  Adam,  proving  himself,  I  infer, 
in  his  own  way  adaptable.  I  have  seen  one 

Captain  Windham,  of  the  3d  Regiment, ,  a 

man  known  to  me  these  half-dozen  years,  a 
suggestive  person  with  a  problematical  mind, 
musician  and  scout,  bred  in  a  monastery,  and 
tending  speculatively  God  knows  where,  but 
likely,  from  his  looks,  to  be  presently  disem 
bodied  and  '  blown  with  restless  violence  about 
the  pendent  world/  a  condition  to  which,  I 
believe  profoundly,  he  will  readily  adapt  him 
self.  He  lies  pumped  empty  of  blood,  and 
with  a  shell  wound  more  or  less  terrific,  in  the 
tent  where  sits  the  author  of  Leaves  of  Grass. 
The  rain  beats  slowly  on  the  tent.  I  see  the 
dim  shining  thereof,  and  of  other  tents  around 
it,  lantern-lit.  Under  the  high  floor  of  a  house- 
porch  I  feed  a  fire  surreptitiously  with  the 
lattice-work,  and  look  out  into  the  night,  and 
consider  the  life  of  man,  its  beautiful  incon 
sequence.  It  is  as  good  a  place  as  any  other, 
this  sub-portican  retreat  in  the  midnight  pause 
of  bellowing  war.  It  serves  me  and  the  time. 
Have  I  not  lived?  Have  I  not  slept  in  fine  linen 
260 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

and  stridden  a  horse,  and  looked  into  eyes  that 
smiled  for  me,  and  had  a  bullet  hole  through 
my  hat,  and  bowed  from  a  platform  to  a  sea  of 
faces?  And  were  they  any  better,  intrinsically, 
than  this?  Why,  then,  my  mud-encased  and 
mud-protected  soldiery,  my  Michigan  pirate, 
my  monastery-bred  visionary  and  scholastic 
adventurer,  both  of  the  latter  now  floating  on 
the  edge  of  the  downward-and-gone,  my  poet 
of  catalogues  and  statistics  in  defiant  metre, 
preacher  of  the  gospel  of  muscular  affection, 
now  practising  that  gospel — we  are  all,  I  con 
clude,  doing  very  well  where  we  are.  Human 
adaptability!  Or  is  it  in  some  measure  a 
fluid  type  peculiar  to  this  continent? 

"  Enters  here  one  with  shoulder-straps  and  an 
ill-conditioned  face,  which  he  pokes  in  and  in 
quires  curiously,  'Why  I  am  burning  up  a 
house  full  of  patients?'  In  reply,  'If  I  were 
burning  up  a  house,  without  doubt  there  would 
be  reasons.  But  I  distinguish,  I  am  not  burn 
ing  up  a  house,  but  lighting  a  torch  of  intel 
ligence  for  a  public  in  the  dark.  Remarking, 
'Oh!  You're  smoking  up  through  the  floor 
of  the  porch.  Look  out!'  he  withdraws. 

"Which  reminds  me  to  go  up  the  river  to 
morrow  and  find  the  end  of  a  telegraph  wire 
261 


"The     Debatable    Land" 

that  is  approachable  and  unabsorbed  by  the 
military. 

"A  singular  convocation  of  atoms  is  this 
same  war,  wherein  atomic  egoism  is  at  times 
the  more  violently  asserted,  and  again  dis 
turbed  and  modified.  The  semi  -  translucent 
but  resisting  barrier  that  separates  the  human 
atom  from  the  human  atom  is  assaulted  and 
impinged  against  almost  to  penetration  or 
shattering.  In  this  upheaval  atoms  tend  back 
to  inorganic  unity.  The  roots  of  existence 
are  exposed,  the  primeval  reappears.  Never 
theless  I  have  not  seemed  anywhere  more 
'  an  individual  and  an  egoist/  to  quote  the  prob 
lematical  musician,  than  now,  sheltered  here 
from  the  sombre  rain,  burning  another  man's 
green  lattice-work  for  private  comfort,  and  pos 
sessed  of  an  occurrent  idea  or  desire,  if  it  were 
possible,  to  inquire  of  this  Windham  how  fares 
his  individual  egoism,  and  whether  the  advent 
ure  apparently  before  him  is,  in  his  opinion, 
one  worthy  of  a  sportsman. 

"The  scripture  of  the  immortal  bard  men 
tions  a  'thrilling  region  of  thick-ribbed  ice/ 
Imagination  suggests  an  acclimatization  of 
the  disembodied  essence  to  Arctic  needs,  some 
ingenious  utilization  of  Northern  Lights,  and 
262 


"The     Debatable    Land" 

confesses  its  suggestions  feeble.  My  imagina 
tion  is  not  what  it  once  was.  Gray  hairs  of  me 
display  their  tenuous  forewarning.  '  The  times 
are  waxing  late. '  Without  pretending  a  polem 
ical  interest  in  this  war,  I  have  candidly  to 
state  that  it  looks  to  me  like  both  engines  in 
the  ditch.  'The  jig/  in  the  stately  words  of 
Job,  'is  about  up/  The  rain  echoes  that 
oracular  opinion,  and  the  brigade  hospital 
tents  glimmer  distantly,  where  lies  that  prob 
lematical  cross-breed  of  a  monastery  and  later 
conditions,  where  sits  the  author  of  Leaves 
of  Grass  hour  after  hour,  holding  the  hand  of 
a  piratical  stranger  from  Michigan/' 
263 


Chapter   XX 

Treats    of    Further   Incidents   in   the  House   with  the 
White  Door 

THE  mud  on  the  suburban  road  sucked  about 
the  feet  of  Mavering's  horse.  So  he  came 
again  at  night  to  the  hospital  above  the  river 
and  to  the  brick  house  with  the  white  door  and 
pillars.  Another  horse  was  fastened  at  the 
gate.  A  fat,  grinning  negro  woman  opened 
the  door,  and  when  he  entered  the  room,  Helen 
started  forward  with  an  exclamation,  a  red 
spot  on  each  cheek  that  did  not  belong  there; 
Rachel  smiled  graciously  and  came  towards 
him  in  the  manner  of  polished  and  experienced 
hospitality;  and  the  man  who  stood  backed 
against  the  chimney-piece,  his  shoulders  cover 
ing  half  of  it  and  looking  as  massive  as  the 
brickwork,  was  Morgan  Map.  He  gathered  his 
yellow  eyebrows  at  seeing  Mavering,  moved, 
swayed  an  instant,  then  clicked  his  teeth  and 
waited  stiffly  with  back  set  to  the  brick-work. 

"Ah,  captain!" 

264 


"The    Debatable    Land' 

Morgan  growled  something  indistinguish 
able.  Mavering's  wide  mouth  had  on  its 
widest  smile,  and  in  his  soul  was  pleasure 
and  appreciation. 

"We  have  here/'  he  thought,  "a  tidy  little 
game/' 

He  sat  down  and  described  the  late  battle, 
and  considered.  Morgan  finally  took  his  hat. 

"Are  you  going  into  the  city,  Mavering?" 

"Don't  wait  for  me.  Oh!  It  occurs  to  me 
— that  paper  you  lost,  containing,  you  recollect, 
certain  specifications,  was  captured  and  went 
South/'  He  had  the  thread  of  his  fluency 
in  hand  now.  "The  object  for  which  it  ap 
peared  to  have  been  drawn  up  was,  as  perhaps 
you  have  heard" — a  pause — "not  entirely 
attained,  and  I  don't  know  that  it  may  not 
itself  have  been  destroyed.  Probably  not. 
At  any  rate,  witnesses  could  be  found  down 
there  in.  time,  affidavits  and  'so  on,  as  to  what 
it  contained  and  the  circumstances  of  its — 
its  loss,  which  contents  and  circumstances 
and  their  purport  are  only  known  to  you,  to 
me,  and  to  the  person  to  whom  the  specifica 
tions  referred.  I  propose,  if  you  don't  mind, 
to  make  Mrs.  Mavering  a  fourth." 

"You'd  better  ride  into  the  city  with  me." 
265 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

"  I  should  be  pleased  to  oblige  you,  but  it's 
not  my  funeral.  I  have  my  own  obsequies  in 
process.  Why  make  myself  likely  to  become 
a  secondary  corpse  at  another  man's?" 

"Then  I'd  like  a  few  minutes'  talk." 

"Another  time.  My  dear  sir,  why  worry? 
why  be  anxious?  You  can't  do  otherwise 
than  exactly  as  you  may  be  requested." 

"That  means  there  must  be  a  deal/'  said 
Morgan,  simply.  "All  right." 

Mavering  thought,  "  Blanked  if  I  don't  ad 
mire  him!"  and  said:  "Not  a  deal — rather,  I 
imagine,  a  surrender  to  stated  terms." 

"Where  are  you  staying?"  Morgan  asked. 

"Oh,  never  mind  about  me.  I  have  that 
singular  dislike  just  mentioned  to  the  role  of 
a  secondary  corpse.  But  let  me  suggest  spe 
cifically  that  you  might  come  out  here  in  the 
course  of  your  convenience  and  receive  from 
Mrs.  Mavering  what  we  will  call,  perhaps, 
advice.  My  opinion  is  that  it  will  be  the — let 
us  say — advice  which  you'll  have  to  follow; 
but,  of  course,  your  own  judgment,  sagacity, 
talents  for  strategic  combination — believe  me, 
I  have  the  highest  admiration  for  them — will 
be  the  best  of  guides." 

Morgan  said,  "All  right,"  quite  simply,  and 
266 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

Havering  again  thought,  "  Blanked  if  I  don't 
admire  him  '/'admiring  him,  perhaps  personally, 
at  least  dramatically,  out  of  his  own  fund  of 
appreciation  for  things  that  were  fit  and  con 
sistent.  The  massive  simplicity  of  Morgan, 
the  primitive  unscrupulousness,  the  bulk  and 
unity  of  desire  in  him,  the  shape  and  size  and 
weight  of  bone,  all  seemed  to  fit  together.  He 
was  not  problematical — at  least,  not  divided — 
not,  in  latter-day  terms, ' '  differentiated ' ' — within 
himself.  "  I  suppose  I  know  what  Mrs.  Maver- 
ing  would  say.  She  needn't  bother/'  Mor 
gan  continued,  and  stooped  and  kissed  Helen, 
who  seemed  to  droop  under  his  touch.  Maver- 
ing  admired  him  without  interruption.  "A 
pyramid,  an  Assyrian  bas-relief,  a  stately 
savage  unsophisticated  by  altruism  and  the 
Ten  Commandments.  I'd  give  something  to 
know  what  he  is  going  to  do.  What  can  he  do?" 
He  thought  he  would  take  any  reasonable 
odds  that  Helen  loved  this  one  rather  than  the 
problematical  anchorite,  and  would  not  give 
him  up.  In  that  case  what  would  Rachel  do? 
The  anchorite  might  be  gone  on  his  disem 
bodied  adventure  by  this  time,  neither  capable 
of  nor  interested  in  doing  anything  mundane. 
But  when  Morgan  was  gone,  and  Helen,  looking 
267 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

up  suddenly,  asked,  "Have  you  seen  Gard?" 
the  progress  of  his  speculation  turned  with 
abrupt  angle. 

Good  God !  I  apologize !  I've  seen  him  since 
the  battle,  Miss  Bourn,  but  had  no  conversa 
tion." 

Helen  was  silent,  and  Rachel  said : 

"But  you  and  Captain  Map  were  very  mys 
terious/' 

"True,  without  doubt  it  seemed  so/'  He 
paused,  studied  the  ceiling  a  moment,  and 
continued:  "Map  allowed  a  paper  to  fall  into 
the  hands  of  the  enemy,  which  accidentally 
did  no  harm,  but  in  which  unscrupulous  and 
self-seeking  parties  might  find  opportunity  to 
make  him  trouble.  I  should  not  say  that  he 
was  at  fault  on  a  point  of  carelessness.  In 
fact,  the  plan,  in  a  way,  was  admirable.  I  ob 
serve  that  the  night  is  brilliant  and  picturesque. 
If  Mrs.  Mavering  will  walk  out  with  me,  where- 
ever  the  ground  is  not  intolerably  sloppy,  I 
will  leave  with  her  a  hint  which  she  may  de 
liver  to  Map,  if  he  calls  for  it,  and  may  indicate 
the  substance  of  it  to  Miss  Bourn,  if  she  sees 
fit." 

Rachel  put  her  cloak  on  and  the  two  went 
out,  leaving  Helen  before  the  fire.     She  leaned 
268 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

her  head  on  one  hand  so  that  her  fingers  were 
pushed  into  her  hair;  the  other  hung  over  the 
arm  of  the  chair,  and  looked  slight,  listless,  and 
pathetic. 

The  white  steamer  lay  at  the  wharf,  almost 
ready  for  departure.  Havering  broke  the  si 
lence. 

"I  endeavor  earnestly  to  become  interested 
in  another  man's  obsequies.  I  fail.  Do  I  go 
back  to  the  city  to-night,  Rachel,  a  pariah, 
settled  in  my  caste?  The  question  has  more  to 
me  than  an  academic  interest.  If  I  go,  it  will 
be  something  in  the  mood  to  find  satisfaction 
in  meeting  and  doing  vicious  gun  practice 
with  Morgan  Map,  who  is  presumed  to  be 
waiting  in  a  solitary  place  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
down  the  road.  Possibly  he  is  not.  I  don't 
know  what  his  game  will  be." 

Rachel  had  shrunk  back  when  he  began,  and 
now  stood  still. 

"You  promised  me — you  said — " 

"Very  likely;  the  promise  is  broken." 

A  board  fence  was  beside  the  road ;  she  clung 
to  it  and  shivered  with  the  old,  half-forgotten 
terror. 

"There  was  something  else  you  were  to  tell 
me/'  she  said  at  last.  He  told  her  briefly  the 
269 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

incident  of  the  dropped  paper,  and  concluded : 
"  It's  no  concern  of  mine,  or  yours,  unless  you're 
interested  in  this  girl,  who  appears  to  be  the 
singularly  efficient  motive,  of  the  state  of  whose 
affections  I  am  not  informed.  One  of  the  last 
things  that  Windham  said  to  me  was  to  tell 
you  about  it  and  tell  you  to  save  the  girl,  mean 
ing,  I  take  it,  with  more  precision  of  phrase, 
that  you  are  to  shunt  Map  into  the  ditch,  which 
you  evidently  can  do  if  you  want  to.  No 
doubt,  it  will  be  my  matrimonial  duty  to  help, 
though  the  ethical  side  of  matrimony  you 
wouldn't  expect  to  appeal  to  me.  No  more  it 
does.  Is  there  any  side  that  appeals  to  you? 
What  are  you  afraid  of?" — with  sudden  savage- 
ness — "of  me?  Keep  your  disgust  to  your 
self,  then,  till  I'm  gone.  I'll  get  Map  strung  up 
if  you  like,  or  shot,  or  blotted  out  by  persua 
sion.  Windham' s  probably  dead,  and  doesn't 
care.  Map's  a  damned  scoundrel  like  me,  and 
a  deal  more  concentrated.  As  for — " 

Rachel  caught  his  arm  and  stared  up  at 
him: 

"Card!     What  do  you  mean?" 

And  Mavering  laughed. 

"Gard,  is  it?  This  little  melodrama  is  well 
done.  Exit  John  Mavering  into  the  jaws  of 
270 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

hell.  What  comes  next?  My  pearl  of  a  wife, 
my  gentle  and  frightened  dove,  mil  you  kindly 
state  what  you  are  up  to?" 

"It's  Helen—" 

"Helen!     Helen,  avaunt!     I'm  done." 

"Oh,  Jack,  it  all  depends  on  him!  Don't 
you  see?" 

"I  see  you  care  much  for  Windham,  and 
perhaps  yon  girl  with  the  yellow  hair,  and 
have  a  sensitive  dislike  for  me.  Gods!  she's 
pretty,  yon  girl,  but  she  ought  to  be  fatter. 
I  don't  know  whether  Windham's  dead  or 
not,  but  he  looked  like  a  consumptive  plaster- 
cast  when  I  saw  him — been  ploughed  and 
harrowed  by  a  shell  and  made  ready  to  be 
planted  for  immortality,  I  inferred,  but  didn't 
inquire.  What  do  I  care  for  him  or  the  said 
girl  who  is  pretty  but  should  be  fatter?  What 
do  I  care  for  you?  I  don't  know.  But  if  you 
propose  matrimony  for  the  two,  I'll  go  so  far 
in  friendship  as  to  tell  him  he'd  much  better 
be  planted.  Am  I  such  slime  to  your  cultured 
taste?  Say  so,  then,  and,  by  God!  you've  seen 
the  last  of  me." 

Rachel  recovered  herself.  She  still  held 
his  arm.  She  pressed  nearer  and  was  silent 
a  moment.  The  steamer  below  the  bank  was 
271 


"The    Debatable  Land" 

brightly  lit,  the  docks  bustling  and  noisy.  "  You 
needn't  go.  Come  and  help  me,  and  ask  what 
you  like.  I  think  you  love  me  a  little.  Per 
haps  I  was  wrong  in  the  beginning." 

They  went  back  towards  the  house.  Maver- 
ing  admitted  a  degree  of  bewilderment.  When 
Rachel  was  in  a  state  of  self-possession,  it  was 
difficult  not  to  feel  inferior.  There  were  times 
— moments  of  weakness — when  Havering  con 
fessed  a  sensation  towards  her,  never  else 
where  directed,  and  which  might  be  called 
respect — a  hesitation,  a  summons  somehow  to 
draw  back  the  great  muddy  river  of  event  as 
well  as  the  confluent  stream  of  his  own  im 
perturbable  comment,  to  turn  them  aside  from 
pouring  over  her.  It  must  have  cost  time  and 
selection  to  make  Rachel,  and  the  Mississippi 
lacked  discrimination. 

Helen  sat  as  before,  listlessly.  Rachel  knelt 
beside  her  and  whispered.  Helen  started ;  the 
listless  hand  gripped  the  arm  of  the  chair  with 
a  vigor  that  tore  the  cushion.  She  broke  from 
Rachel's  arms. 

"Where  is  he?" 

"Gods!"    murmured  Mavering,  in  depreca 
tion.     "  This  race  of  women !     About  six  miles 
back  of  the  Creek  landing." 
272 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

"The  steamer  goes  out  at  ten.  Pack  a 
basket,  Rachel." 

Helen  left  the  room  with  a  rush.  Mavering 
looked  after  her  with  wakened  interest.  "  Who 
and  what  is  this?"  Rachel  came  to  him  and 
pleaded. 

"I  owe  her  everything.  You  left  me  so 
desperate — " 

"  I  left  you?    I  seem  to  have  forgotten  that." 

"I  thought  there  was  nothing  more  for  me. 
She  brought  me  to  life  again.  Help  her,  Jack. 
I  think  we  can  neither  of  us  change.  I  think 
it  will  be  the  old  story  again.  But  I'll  try." 

Mavering  looked  down  and  felt  a  touch  of 
compunction  curious  to  himself. 

"  I  suppose  the  anchorite  was  correct — prob 
lematical,  but  accurate.  I  don't  carry  your  price. 
You're  too  expensive  for  me.  As  to  the  anchorite, 
I'll  find  him  and  bring  him  back,  dead  or  alive. 
That's  cheap,  but  the  rest  of  it  is  expensive." 

A  half  hour  later  the  white  steamer  was 
ploughing  down  the  river.  Mavering,  in  the 
long,  nearly  empty  cabin,  stretched  himself 
on  a  sofa,  denounced  the  execrable  taste  of 
steamboat  furnishing,  and  went  philosophically 
to  sleep.  Helen,  on  the  upper  deck,  stared  at 
the  starlit  Virginia  shore, 
is  273 


Chapter    XXI 

In  Which  We  Go  Down  the  River  and  Return 

A  LOUD  wind  blew  up  the  river,  cold,  sombre, 
insistent.  The  river  seemed  to  tremble  in 
waves  and  shiver  in  wrinkles  under  the  monot 
onous  threatening  of  the  wind,  the  stars  to 
be  fretful  in  their  bleak  spaces.  "  Forever  is  a 
long  time/'  Helen  wrapped  her  cloak  more 
closely. 

"Dead!"  The  wind  stated  it  coldly,  in 
sistently,  and  did  not  mind  how  fiercely  she 
denied  it.  It  was  only  the  surface  of  the  river 
that  trembled  and  glimmered  so.  The  in 
evitable  reality  was  the  current  below — dark, 
steady,  and  leading  downward  to  that  sea  from 
which  the  cold  wind  came  with  insistent  state 
ment.  If  men  and  women  were  incidents  to 
powers  beneath  and  influences  over  them, 
like  the  myriad  tiny  flickers  born  of  coinci 
dences  between  the  divinity  of  the  stars  and 
the  toil  of  the  river;  if  one  only  carried  for  a 
short  time  this  little  torch  of  courage  in  a  night 
274 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

without  horizon;  and  behind  the  surface  of 
things  "their  substance  and  third  dimension/' 
in  Gard's  phrase,  stretched  away  into  a  ghostly 
distance;  yet  it  was  inborn  in  Helen  to  carry 
her  torch  high,  to  lay  lance  in  rest  and  chal 
lenge  the  ghostliest  shadow  in  sight,  to  be  her 
self  personal  and  definite,  to  accuse  even  ab 
stractions  of  personality,  to  make  a  vivid  world 
of  nearby  things  and  live  vividly  within  it. 

In  that  world,  life  had  seemed  mainly  to 
consist  of  purpose  and  achievement;  but  on 
the  wide  river  between  the  crouching  shores 
that  night — with  the  wind  calling  continually, 
"Dead,  dead" — wishes,  resolves,  and  actions 
to  follow  them,  how  shrunken  and  chilled  they 
seemed,  if  one  were  only  an  accidental  wrinkle 
on  the  river,  possibly  a  glimmer  if  a  star  hap 
pened  to  look  that  way! 

"It  is  not  true!"  She  went  in  and  saw 
lamps  swinging  the  length  of  the  saloon, 
where  men  were  asleep  on  the  sofas  and  the 
floor. 

The  engines  throbbed  and  the  paddle-wheels 
creaked  and  splashed  near  the  window  of  her 
state-room.  She  lay  awake,  and  yet  seemed 
to  hear  sounds  like  a  moaning  organ,  to  see 
Gard's  face  floating,  white  and  motionless,  in 
275 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

black  water,  and  moving  down  seaward  with 
a  tide  that  she  tried  to  block  with  her  hands. 
She  started  up,  choking  and  sobbing,  and 
heard  the  engines  throb,  the  paddle-wheel 
creak  and  splash. 

It  was  still  dark  when  the  steamer  drew  in  to 
a  wharf.  Lights  were  moving  about.  There 
were  three  or  four  houses,  a  flag  flapping  sulk 
ily  in  the  wind,  a  train  of  cars  and  a  puffing 
engine,  a  line  of  black  bluffs  against  the  sky. 
It  was  misty  dawn  when  the  train  started  south, 
and  full  sunrise  when  she  stepped  from  the 
train  with  Havering  and  saw  a  house  with 
high  porch  on  a  hill;  below,  near  a  grove,  the 
brigade  hospital  tents.  The  big,  hurrying 
surgeon  said:  "Move  him!  Good  God! — I 
beg  your  pardon — yes.  It's  run  mighty  low. 
It  needs  warming  and  coaxing.  There's  da — 
I  beg  your  pardon — there's  very  little  of  either 
here.  This  is  the  first  time  in  six  weeks  the 
army  of  the  Potomac  has  had  any  luck,  to  my 
knowledge."  He  looked  at  Helen  suddenly, 
dropped  his  gallantry,  and  continued,  gravely : 
"  As  to  the  chances,  since  you  ask  me,  I  suspect 
there  are  complications.  But  as  an  alterna 
tive  to  nights  as  cold  as  this,  I  should  say,  do 
almost  anything."  A  moment's  silence,  and 

276 


"The     Debatable    Land" 

he  went  on :  "  They  lie  around  here,  about  five 
hundred  to  an  acre,  several  acres  of  them. 
That's  the  trouble.  However,  I  knew  Captain 
Windham.  I  admired  him — this  is  the  tent. 
I  hope  you  have  everything  you  need.  Give 
him  brandy  and  milk.  The  train  goes  back 
about  eight.  Good-bye/'  The  big  surgeon 
hurried  away. 

Mavering  stepped  in  behind  her,  looked 
around,  and  said :  "  Exactly.  The  pirate's 
gone/'  Helen  did  not  hear  him.  A  pile  of 
straw  and  some  blankets,  a  black  cloak,  the 
white  face  against  it,  like  one  drowned  and 
going  seaward  with  a  tide.  She  dropped  on 
her  knees  and  bent  over  it.  "  Will  you  get  the 
things/'  she  half  whispered,  looking  around — 
"a  stretcher  and  some  men?  Please  take  my 
purse  and  come  back  in  time  for  the  train/' 

Mavering  went  out.  In  the  way  of  descrip 
tive  adjectives  he  thought  "fierce"  was  the 
word.  She  looked  "  fierce. "  "  And, "  he  reflect 
ed,  "  I  dare  say  a  man  may  turn  out  a  domes 
tic  cat  if  he  were  half  drowned  and  properly 
stroked  and  not  too  old.  Quien  sabe?  If  the 
anchorite  comes  to,  I'm  gambling  my  gray 
hairs  he's  tamed.  Gray  hairs  are  distinctly 
a  misfortune." 

277 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

Helen  leaned  close  over.  The  "must"  and 
" shall"  that  absorbed  her  seemed  straining 
at  her  eyes  and  lips.  She  felt  as  if  she  were 
lifting  a  weight.  "You  must,  Gard,  you  must 
stay"  —  struggling  to  keep  the  white  face 
from  going  down  in  the  suck  of  an  undertow, 
drawn  under  by  some  blind  power  that  knew 
no  measures  of  values  or  who  loved  and  re 
membered  and  who  forgot. 

Measure  of  values!  Your  bullet  goes  forth 
in  a  pointed  manner,  appears  to  be  determined, 
purposeful,  greatly  in  earnest,  and  buries  itself 
in  a  sand-bank,  or  the  brain  of  a  scholar — all 
one  to  the  bullet,  all  one  to  the  rifleman  who 
knows  nothing  of  the  matter,  all  one  to  the 
per  cent,  of  averages,  to  the  flowing  laws  and 
far-off  events  of  the  universe. 

"But  you  must,  Gard,  you  must  stay."  So 
tiny  a  torch  to  shake  with  such  insistence  at 
the  wide  night  and  call  on  its  hurrying  storms 
to  stop!  Enter  demurral  and  private  petition 
to  those  high  courts  and  abstract  legislatures! 
"  The  constitution  does  not  provide  for  you  in 
person." 

'  Then  amend  it.  It  should.  It  does  me 
wrong.  What  are  laws  for  if  not  for  justice?" 

"They  are  not  at  the  call  of  human  justice." 
278 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

"Ah,  then,  not  justice!  But  have  pity,  or 
forget  and  go  by!  Only  let  me  keep  him.  I 
love  him.  I  will  not  let  him  go." 

The  protest  seems  almost  as  persistent  as 
the  law.  After  all,  it  might  be  itself  a  law  or 
an  amendment  in  process  of  making,  this  pro 
test.  But  if  Gard  Windham  should  not  go  on 
that  adventure  and  exploration,  inferred  by 
Mavering  to  be,  perhaps,  Arctic  in  character, 
and  should  linger  back  to  life  in  the  course  of 
event  and  not  by  virtue  of  an  amendment, 
probably  Helen  would  not  care  how  it  came 
about. 

She  did  not  care  how  the  men  with  the  stretch 
er  looked,  how  the}^  took  off  their  caps  or 
whispered.  The  moving  train  and  the  steam 
boat  were  vague  things  aside.  Both  were 
crowded,  but  no  one  spoke  to  her.  It  seemed 
to  be  arranged,  recognized,  and  admitted. 

A  group  gathered  about  Mavering  on  deck, 
who  said :  "  Why,  it  appears  to  me  a  situation 
that  doesn't  admit  of  remark.  It  looks  like  a 
case  of  stand  off  and  clear  the  road.  It  has 
that  distinguished  appearance/'  And  there 
was  a  murmur  of  assent. 

The  wounded,  sitting  or  lying  about  on  both 
decks  and  in  the  cabin,  were  wretched  and 
279 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

sinister  sights.  Some  babbled  in  delirium; 
a  few,  like  Card,  were  sunk  in  torpor,  uncon 
scious  of  their  issues.  The  steamer  ploughed 
through  splashing  and  gurgling  water.  The 
driven,  wintry  clouds  streamed  across  the  sky, 
gray  and  ragged  as  battle-torn  banners.  Hawks 
floated  over  the  river,  graceful  in  their  savage 
hunt  over  the  double-decked  steamer  loaded 
with  human  pain  bound  for  the  hospitals. 
And  Helen  noticed  and  remembered  nothing 
of  it.  She  seemed  to  herself  more  like  a  ghost 
alone  with  Gard,  who  was  another  ghost. 
Empty  space  was  around  them,  the  existence 
of  both  so  tenuous  that  it  consisted  only  of  the 
faint  pulse-beat  in  his  wrist,  which  she  held. 
This  beat  was  the  measure  of  the  flight  of 
time,  and  the  slender  thread  that  bound  the 
world  together.  It  used  to  seem  to  her  that 
Gard  was  too  intangible,  almost  unreal.  One 
could  not  say  what  he  was  like.  What  did  he 
mean  by:  "I  don't  care  whether  I'm  an  admirable 
person  or  not;  I'm  a  partially  illuminated  point, 
floating  along  I  don't  know  where  or  why. 
What's  the  use  of  caring?  There's  too  much 
before  and  after  "  ?  Or  :  "  Every  one  lives  in  a 
dungeon;  he  doesn't  know  any  other  dungeon 
than  his  own"?  And  when  he  used  to  play 
280 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

the  organ  in  Saint  Mary's  and  fill  the  great 
church  with  mystical  voices,  he  had  seemed  to 
her  something  not  of  the  daily  world,  but  of 
a  world  partly  like  the  one  in  which  she  built 
her  own  fanciful  castles;  only  it  was  wider 
and  more  peculiar,  and  the  powers  in  it  were 
strong  and  strange.  However  apart  from 
Gard  himself  her  idea  of  him  may  have  been, 
it  was  one  which  this  long  watch  beside  him, 
the  touch  of  the  slow  pulse,  and  the  knowledge 
of  how  closely  he  now  at  least  moved  along  the 
frontier  of  shadows,  only  made  more  intimate. 
The  organ  was  not  needed  to  interpret  him. 
She  felt  that  she  knew  what  he  was  like.  She 
thought  the  pulse-beat  spoke,  as  the  organ  used 
to  speak,  with  the  same  swift,  immediate  pres 
ence,  and  that,  when  she  whispered  "  You 
must  stay/'  it  throbbed  an  answer:  "You 
mean,  come  back.  You've  no  idea  how  far 
it  is  down  here,  and  very  curious.  But  may 
be  I  can,  if  you'll  hold  your  end  of  whatever 
it  is."  And  so  the  crowd  and  the  murmur,  the 
babbling  in  delirium  of  the  man  on  the  next 
stretcher,  the  laboring  of  the  steamer  plough 
ing  up  stream,  the  passing  of  hours,  all  seemed 
moved  apart  from  her.  Sometimes  the  distant 
consciousness  would  seem  to  almost  or  quite 
281 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

return,  and  look  out  at  her  under  wavering 
eye-lashes.  The  lips  moved,  and  she  fancied 
they  said,  "I  knew  you  were  there/ '  She  be 
came  aware,  at  the  same  time,  that  the  steamer 
had  stopped,  that  the  stretchers  were  being 
carried  out  in  procession,  and  that  over  her 
stood  Mavering,  Rachel,  and  Thaddeus  Bourn ; 
and  of  these  she  was  hardly  aware  enough  to 
be  surprised  at  Thaddeus.  When  they  came 
to  the  house  with  the  white  door,  and  he  drew 
her  aside  a  moment,  she  half  resisted  in  a 
dazed  way,  and  felt  as  if  not  to  be  close  to  Card 
were  against  nature  and  reason.  Thaddeus 
drew  her  into  the  sitting-room.  The  men  had 
carried  Gard  to  the  room  beyond.  They  had 
set  down  the  stretcher  and  were  moving  him. 
"In  point  of  fact,"  began  Thaddeus,  "I've 
come  to  take  you  home.  Your  mother  is — a — 
not  so  well.  I  fear  it  is  quite  serious.  I  wrote 
you,  but  it  did  not  at  that  time  seem  serious. 
A  woman  of  astonishing  placidity,  my  dear, 
which  I  have  sometimes  felt  tempted  to  rec 
ommend,  in  fact,  to  your  imitation.  But  the 
circumstances  are  such  now  that  it  would  not, 
I  might  say,  be  in  good  taste.  Her  condition 
is,  I  regret  to  say — seems  to  be — but  perhaps 
to-morrow." 

282 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

He  was  not  sure  she  heard  him. 

"Oh  yes,  to-morrow/' 

To-morrow  might  be  what  it  liked  if  he  would 
let  her  go  now.  She  slipped  away.  The  men 
came  out  and  left  the  house.  Rachel  followed 
with  Havering  and  closed  the  door.  After  a 
time  Thaddeus  said: 

"  Relative  to  a  certain  estate,  Mrs.  Havering, 
in  which  you  and  I  made  investments,  under 
took  a  trusteeship,  has  it  not,  in  your  opinion, 
been  administered  somewhat — a — speculative- 
ly?  It  appears  to  me  to  be  loaded,  I  might 
say,  with  liabilities.  I  do  not  see  that  the — a — 
securities  are  ascertained/' 

"Oh!  but  I  think  he  will  get  well." 

"Granted— and  then?" 

"He  must  care  for  her." 

"Granted — a — it  would  seem  probable,  and 
then?" 

He  deliberately  refrained  from  looking  at 
Havering,  who  was  examining  Thaddeus,  his 
gold -rimmed  glasses  and  accurate  tailoring, 
with  speculative  interest. 

"I  doubt  whether  you  can  argue  from  me," 
said  Havering,  serenely.  Rachel  flushed  and 
Thaddeus  protested. 

"Oh,  I  beg-" 

283 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

"Not  at  all.  It  is  admitted  that  the  garb 
of  civil  society  has  never  fitted  me.  Any  coat 
will  go  on  me,  but  none  will  fit  to  the  satis 
faction  of  fashion.  But  as  to  the  anchorite,  I 
would  not  argue  a  parallel.  I  suspect  he  will 
cut  his  coat  to  newer  fashions  than  mine — pos 
sibly  than  yours.  My  dear  sir,  I'm  an  egoist 
and  you're  an  egoist/' 

"True,"  murmured  Thaddeus,  "a  social 
egoist." 

Mavering  stopped  long  enough  to  reflect 
that  he  liked  this  Thaddeus  Bourn,  a  man 
apparently  with  conversations  in  him. 

"Very  good.  And  so  it  occurs  to  me  in 
passing  that  I  may  be  the  more  elementary, 
anterior  type;  and,  say,  Morgan  Map,  a  still 
further  elementary,  anterior,  antediluvian — " 

"Excellent!"  cried  Thaddeus;  "excellent 
choice  of  phrase!  My  idea  exactly!  I  said  a 
primary,  primitive,  primordial." 

"  Good  words,  all  of  them — descriptive  and 
discreet." 

The  two  smiled  at  each  other  with  apprecia 
tion. 

"Map  might  do,"  continued  Mavering,  "if 
he  had  all  the  room  there  was.  He  needs  more 
room,  properly  for  his  state  of  culture,  even 

284 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

than  I  do.  Now  the  anchorite  —  I  refer  to 
Captain  Windham  —  is,  if  an  egoist,  possibly 
a  fourth  kind;  I  am  inclined  to  think — to  ques 
tion — whether  we  might  not  argue  him  even 
in  advance  in  continuance  of  this  theory,  which, 
I  perceive  you  agree  with  me,  is  not  without 
interest." 

"But/'  said  Thaddeus,  distinguishing,  mark 
ing  precision  with  his  eye-glass,  held  between 
two  fingers,  "as  regards,  now,  a  definition/' 

"I  leave  it  to  your  more  discriminating 
choice.  I  contribute  this  observation,  however, 
that  when  the  anchorite  wants  more  room  he 
is  apt  to- climb  into  the  air  for  it,  instead  of 
quarrelling  with  his  neighbors  on  the  earth/' 

Havering  took  his  leave.  Rachel  went  to 
the  window  and  stood  looking  after  him.  Thad 
deus  polished  his  glasses,  and  thought  that 
Havering  was  evidently  a  man  with  conversa 
tion  in  him. 

285 


Chapter    XXII 

Of  Havering,  Who  Disappears — Of  the  Gray  Poet — Of 
Morgan,  Who  Appears  Once  More 

WHEN  Gard  returned  to  the  knowledge  of 
the  light,  he  brought  with  him  the  impres 
sion  that  Helen  was  near.  It  was  an  irritating 
shock  not  to  find  her.  He  remembered  a  num 
ber  of  widely  separated  moments  when  he  had 
been  conscious  of  physical  things — unless  all 
these  were  vagrant  dreams :  the  rain  on  the 
tent,  the  surgeon,  the  bitter  cold,  and  Helen 
sitting  there  holding  his  wrist.  The  last  was 
a  portrait  without  surroundings  or  background. 
Her  hair  was  pushed  away  from  her  forehead, 
and  her  eyes  had  seemed  to  probe  and  search 
for  him  down  wherever  he  was  lost. 

Mrs.  Havering  sat  beside  him  now.  She 
shook  her  head  to  signify  silence  when  he 
wished  to  say  something,  to  question  her  about 
this  doubt;  so  that  he  fell  to  staring  at  the 
ceiling  and  trying  to  work  his  brain,  How 
slowly  the  ideas  moved,  how  reluctant  they 
286 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

were,  how  pale  and  unsuggestive !  To  remem 
ber  something  was  to  pull  a  long,  sagging  rope, 
until  at  last  the  remembrance  would  emerge 
from  a  tideless,  flat  sea  in  a  drowned  condition. 
It  was  exasperating  of  Helen  not  to  be  there. 
The  exasperation  lasted  four  months. 

The  days  and  weeks  slipped  by,  marked 
less  by  nights  and  days  than  by  bits  of  in 
formation  given  and  assimilated  at  intervals. 
He  learned  where  he  was  and  how  he  came  there, 
and  brooded  over  the  subject,  turned  it  slowly 
in  his  mind,  and  concluded  to  go  on  turning 
it.  It  had  innumerable  sides,  surfaces,  depths — 
some  that  were  astonishing,  some  that  melted 
into  day  dreams.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he 
was  on  the  way  to  recover  in  time — a  doctor, 
in  fact,  with  side  whiskers,  gray  and  pendent, 
came  periodically,  and  stated  as  much  in  a 
loud  voice,  and  in  that  case  he  was  glad  that 
life  looked  interesting  and  came  towards  him 
with  shining  approach.  The  winter  sunlight 
falling  through  clear  panes  under  white,  trans 
lucent  curtains  was  as  if  newly  washed. 

It  is  said  that  the  secret  of  the  strong,  tem 
perate  zones  lies  in  their  winter  and  spring, 
the  antiseptic  storms,  the  trance,  and  burial, 
and  then  the  cleansed  revival,  the  issues  of  a 
287 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

fresh  seed-time.  And  there  appear  to  be  certain 
bitter  waters,  flowing  near  the  roots  of  exist 
ence,  in  which,  if  it  so  happens  to  a  man,  he 
may  wash  his  eyes  clear  of  confusion,  and 
afterwards  wonder  how  it  came  that  he  was 
once  weary  of  living.  So  it  seemed  to  Gard 
that  he  had  gone  around  a  circle  and  begun 
a  new  season  of  expectation.  He  was  that 
black-robed  acotyte  again,  slim  and  some 
what  pale,  who,  in  breathless  eagerness  to 
see  and  know,  had  come  out  of  the  door  of  the 
brotherhood's  brick-walled  court-yard  into  the 
hurrying  avenue,  hearing  the  high  fluting, 
"Follow,  follow/'  looking  for  a  banner  and 
sword  and  shield,  possibly  for  a  girl  in  the 
brakes  wTith  sunlight  on  her  hair,  at  least  for 
something  he  had  not  tried  to  explain  to  the 
Father  Superior.  Whatever  his  motives  and 
purposes  then,  they  had  become  clouded  since, 
and  were  clear  again,  and  calling,  "It  is 
time  to  be  afive  and  out  among  the  melodies/ ' 
It  was  good  —  the  mere  living;  a  handsome 
ly  furnished  world,  with  a  number  of  things 
in  it. 

Mrs.  Havering  went  away  in  the  late  win 
ter.     Widow  Bourn  died  in  January,  when  wild 
winds   and   snows   were   beating   against  the 
288 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

combative  little  church,  and  Helen  was  alone 
in  the  cottage,  except  for  an  elderly  woman, 
depressed  and  angular,  in  the  kitchen.  Helen 
refused  to  go  to  Thaddeus,  to  his  bewildered 
disgust.  Mrs.  Havering,  for  some  reason, 
did  not  think  the  refusal  strange,  but  she  be 
came  intent  for  the  North  as  soon  as  she 
heard  it. 

"May  I  come,  too,  Lady  Rachel?    I  mean 
when  this  mossy-whiskered  physician  unties 


me." 


"May!"  she  said,  scornfully.  "You  must. 
Where  else  should  you  go?" 

"It's  queer,  but  it  seems  like  home,  Hagar. 
I  never  saw  it.  Wasn't  Hagar  the  mother 
of  homeless  Ishmaelites?" 

So  Mrs.  Mavering  was  gone.  One  Sabrina, 
a  fat  negro  woman,  was  left,  who  shook  the 
floor  with  her  tread,  who  wore  extraordinary 
green  kerchiefs  on  her  head,  and  exploded  in  a 
melting  gobble  of  mirth  at  Gard's  every  re 
mark,  till  humor  became  a  burden  and  he  tried 
depression.  "I  shall  die,  Sabrina."  Sabrina 
gobbled  with  joy.  He  tried  wrath.  "  You're 
a  galoop,  Sabrina,  a  galoop!" — and  Sabrina 
spilled  his  coffee  over  her  billows  of  delight. 

Mavering  appeared  and  disappeared,  brought 
19  289 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

with  him  once  a  big,  deep  -  breathing  man, 
slightly  singular  in  dress,  with  a  blown,  gray 
beard  and  hair,  soft  eyes,  and  affectionate,  im 
pulsive  ways.  Havering  introduced  him. 

"  He  calls  himself  a  poet,  not  a  Plesiosaurus. 
His  poetry  looks  as  if  it  were  written,  neverthe 
less,  by  a  saurian  with  one  of  his  fins.  I  rec 
ommend  you  two  to  mutual  and  plastic  em 
braces/'  Afterwards  the  gray  man  came  of  ten 
of  himself,  and  would  sit  by  the  bedside,  hold 
ing  Gard's  white,  bony  fingers,  and  recite: 

"  Out  of  the  cradle  endlessly  rocking — " 

"...  do  I  not  see  my  love  fluttering  out  there  among 

the  breakers  ? 

What   is   that   little   black   thing    I   see  there  in  the 
white  ?" 

Or,  "The  Song  of  Myself"— 

"A   child   said,    'What   is   the    grass?'  fetching   it  to 
me  with  full  hands." 

They  grew  suddenly  friendly  and  confident, 
and  talked  art  and  letters.  "Some  of  that  is 
good  stuff/'  Gard  remarked,  "and  it's  all 
yeasty — something  stirring  in  it.  But  I  don't 
see —  Here,  you're  an  egoist,  too — you  sim 
ply  whoop  with  it — and  impartially  affection- 
290 


"The    Debatable     Land" 

ate  at  the  same  time  as  a  self  -  obliterated 
Buddhist." 

"  They  are  one.  The  more  I  love  myself, 
the  more  I  love  you." 

"But  what  do  you  mean  by,  'If  I  worship 
one  thing  more  than  another  it  shall  be  the 
spread  of  my  own  body,  translucent  mould  of 
me  '1  Now,  that's  belated  Greek." 

"  It's  nothing  old.     It's  new  and  democratic. " 

Gard  grumbled  feebly. 

"It  sounds  queer  enough  for  a  gospel.  It 
won't  do  for  me  now.  I  shall  have  to  fat  up 
to  it." 

The  gray  man  leaned  forward  with  that 
tremulous,  dewy  look  in  his  eyes.  He  seemed 
to  have  an  immense  capacity  of  feeling,  a 
physique  made  large  to  endure  it. 

"You  didn't  love  yourself  enough.  All 
that  wasn't  love.  You  didn't  love  any  one. 
Love  inward,  love  outward,  love  everywhere, 
love  some  one  most,  love  many  much.  All 
empty  without  that,  a  drifting  boat  without 
anchor.  You  look  for  the  boatman.  No  one 
there.  Drowned?  No.  Never  was  there." 

After  a  long  silence — "Say  that  'Cradle' 
thing  again.  It's  a  man's  soul  in  the  body  of 
a  whale.  I  don't  believe  it's  new  and  demo- 
291 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

cratic.     It   must   be   old  and   human.     But  I 
know  what  3^011  mean/' 

So  February  and  March  were  gone.  Maver- 
ing  said  there  was  a  big  fight  coming,  went 
away,  and  came  no  more;  nor  the  gray  man, 
either,  who  was  absorbed  in  his  hospitals  and 
his  "average  young  man/'  and  grown  hollow- 
eyed  with  watchings  and  strenuous  sjonpathy. 
Everything  gone,  nothing  coming  except  spring 
and  letters  from  Hagar;  nothing  staying  ex 
cept  Gard  himself  and  Sabrina,  who  reminded 
one  of  melting  butter,  but  of  wrhom  the  quan 
tity  grew  no  less.  "Hagar!  Hagar!"  the  high 
fluting  voice  seemed  now  to  call  continually, 
till  the  tension  of  his  longing,  Gard  fancied, 
would  pull  Hagar  to  him  if  he  did  not  go  soon. 

Late  in  April  they  packed  him  into  a  night 
train,  and  all  night,  or  whenever  he  awoke 
and  looked  out,  the  earth  seemed  to  be  running 
away  southward,  as  if  sucked  towards  the 
whirlpool  of  the  war,  but  the  stars  to  be  travel 
ling  northward  with  him.  How  impatient  they 
were!  How  they  snapped  and  danced  and 
quivered!  "Hurry,  hurry!  But  you  will  see 
how  we  will  shine  over  Hagar  and  forget  the 
bleak  laws  of  our  journey  ings,  and  be  night- 
lamps  in  Helen's  garden." 
292 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

In  the  morning  the  train  stood  still  in  the 
terminal.  He  had  some  hours  to  wait.  He 
crept  through  the  station.  The  rattle  and 
roar  of  the  city  met  him  at  the  door.  The 
few  returning  soldiers  like  himself  were  lost 
in  pursuing  crowds,  the  only  signs  here  of 
the  war  that  to  southward  had  seemed  branded 
on  the  soil  and  written  across  the  street  fronts. 
A  policeman  caught  sight  of  his  uniform,  and 
added  some  points  to  his  rank,  out  of  benevo 
lence. 

"What  '11  you  have,  colonel?" 

"I  think  I'll  have  a  cab." 

The  hurrying  crowd  paused,  and  cheered 
huskily  when  he  drove  away.  He  had  the  cab 
man  drive  across  town  and  down  the  old  avenue. 
At  the  church  of  the  Holy  Trinity  there  was 
a  morning  service  beginning,  and  he  climbed 
the  steps.  Within,  a  few  hundred  people  were 
scattered  about.  The  only  sound  was  the 
moaning  of  the  organ.  High  up  at  one  side 
he  could  see  Moselle's  hunched  shoulders  and 
dingy  yellow  head,  faded  with  age,  against 
the  blue  and  gilded  pipes.  Moselle  began  to 
play  a  prelude,  something  stately  and  stern, 
like  the  thousand-century-old  front  of  a  gray 
crag,  that  might  be  well  known  but  never  could 
293 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

be  familiar.  The  dingy  old  head  moved  Gard 
more  than  the  prelude.  He  went  back  to  the 
cab  and  drove  down  towards  the  Brotherhood. 
There  was  no  flowing  river  so  strange  as  the 
flowing  river  of  the  street.  Every  one  was 
isolated,  no  doubt;  but,  after  all,  there  was  a 
bond.  It  ought  to  be  celebrated  and  sworn  to. 
A  truckman  on  top  of  a  dray  looked  down  and 
probably  caught  him  smiling  to  himself,  grin 
ned,  and  shouted,  "How  goes  it?"  Here  and 
there  on  the  sidewalk,  too,  men  called  out  to 
him.  Every  door  and  window  here  between 
Trinity  and  the  Brotherhood  was  familiar, 
and  the  brick  walls  and  shuttered  windows  of 
the  Brotherhood  were  eloquent.  He  thought, 
"I'll  go  in  another  time,  and  see  Francis  and 
his  sick  flower-bed,  and  the  school  and  Andrew. 
It  would  scare  me  into  a  relapse  to  see  the 
Superior  now.  Nobody  but  the  bonus  Deus 
ever  understood  him,  and  the  bonus  Deus  is 
in  Hagar." 

So  he  went  back  to  the  station.  The  train 
ran  for  an  hour  or  more  past  glimpses  of  the 
sea,  and  then  turned  up  the  Wyantenaug 
Valley.  At  Hamilton  he  changed  cars.  The 
brave  old  river  sweeps  around  a  curve,  and 
294 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

Hamilton  lies  in  the  curve.  He  could  see  the 
tower  of  the  grand-stand  in  the  Fair  grounds, 
and  Saint  Mary's  among  the  other  steeples, 
but  he  sat  still  on  the  station  platform,  saw 
his  trunk  go  by  on  a  hand-truck,  and  watched 
beyond  the  freight-yards  the  rippling,  glinting 
river,  hurrying,  busy,  with  its  myriad  little 
shining  points  of  happiness.  Was  it  the  lan 
guor  of  his  weariness  or  a  magic  in  the  river 
that  flowed  down  from  that  promised  land  of 
Beulah,  the  mythical  Hagar,  the  mother  of 
the  homeless — a  Mecca,  a  Bethlehem,  an  Ar- 
den  of  wise  flowers  and  musical  brooks?  The 
river  seemed  to  gesture,  and  mutter  syllables 
and  sentences.  Some  one  spoke  loudly  over 
his  head.  He  looked  up  and  saw  Morgan 
Map. 

"Going  up  the  valley?  So  am  I/'  Morgan 
said,  and  Gard  nodded  languidly.  It  occurred 
to  him,  slowly,  that  he  ought  to  be  surprised. 
"The  train's  ready.  Come  along/' 

A  practical  man,  this  Map,  Gard  thought — 
a  very  genius  of  accomplishment.  Why  should 
he  go  into  Beulah,  too?  Why  not?  But  he 
must  be  doing  something  here,  this  forcible 
schemer,  who  did  nothing  unaccountably.  If 
he  meditated  violence,  it  was  a  poor  place  for 
295 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

it.  Much  better  to  have  set  fire  to  the  house 
near  the  hospital,  or  corrupted  Sabrina  and 
poisoned  the  breakfast.  Still  —  Gard  pulled 
himself  slowly  up  the  car  steps.  His  knees 
had  not  yet  recovered  from  their  wavering  in 
adequacy — still,  it  was  what  Havering  would 
have  called  "  a  sportsmanlike  situation/'  Map 
might  try  some  simple,  antique,  and  desperate 
thing.  In  that  case  it  would  be  well  to  get 
one's  gun  where  it  could  be  pulled  suddenly. 
Gunpowder  was  the  handicap  that  made  an 
invalid  even  with  two  hundred  pounds  and 
six  -  feet  -  two  of  red  -  haired,  aggressive  health. 
And  all  that  was  nonsense.  What  a  sinewy 
force  it  was — this  love  of  a  woman ! — that  sud 
denly  snapped  a  man's  habits  apart,  dragged 
all  his  other  motives  indifferently  after  it ;  one 
of  the  universal  energies.  Joy  and  desperation, 
and  the  beast  and  the  climbing  soul,  seemed 
packed,  in  it  more  closely  side  by  side  than  in 
any  other  experience. 

Two  or  three  men  were  in  the  car  at  one  end. 
Morgan  went  to  the  other  end  and  pulled  over 
a  seat.  The  two  sat  down  facing  each  other, 
and  Morgan  produced  cigars. 

"I'm  glad  you  brought  these,  however  you 
happen  to  be  here,"  said  Gard.  "The  doctor 

296 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

forbids  them,  so  I  don't  carry  any,  but  accept 
them  from  fate.  It's  a  fine  point  of  casuistry. 
I  disliked  that  doctor — I  disliked  his  whiskers, 
mostly.  They  used  to  get  twisted  up  in  my 
feverish  nightmares.  Did  you  happen  to  be 
here?" 

"  No.  I  found  out  what  time  you  wrere  going, 
got  leave  of  absence  and  came  along/' 

"To  see  where  I  was  going?  I  don't  know 
that  I  understand  why." 

"  Oh,  partly.  I  had  a  general  plan.  I'll  ex 
plain.  I'm  a  practical  man,"  he  went  on,  qui 
etly,  after  a  moment.  "  I  don't  believe  in  loading 
up  with  the  past.  No  scruples  and  no  malice. 
What's  no  use  to  remember  I  forget.  They're 
all  dead  weight.  I  cut  loose.  That's  the  way 
I'm  made.  Now,  I  don't  know  how  you're 
made — don't  know  what  kind  you  are." 

"Neither  do  I.  I'm  going  up  to  Hagar  to 
find  out." 

"Well !  I  said;  I'm  done,  hedged  out;  hedged 
in,  too.  The  question  is,  Can  I  cut  out — cut 
loose?  It  depends  on  Windham.  The  more 
I  thought  about  it  the  more  I  didn't  get  any 
definition  of  you.  I  concluded  to  come  along — 
see  what  could  be  done — clear  up  the  ground — 
know  what's  to  pay.  If  you  go  to  Hagar  with 
297 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

the  purpose  supposed,  that's  all  right.  Tin 
done,  anyway.  I  have  an  errand  of  my  own 
there — which  doesn't  concern  you,  however.  I 
throw  up  my  hand.  I  was  in  hell  and  played 
for  keeps.  I  say  now,  a  man  that's  won  needn't 
bear  malice.  No  use  in  that.  He  can  call 
me  what  he  chooses  if  it  eases  his  mind.  That 
won't  hurt  me  any,  nor  him.  He's  safe.  He 
needn't  be  dainty.  It's  a  fact.  I  sent  a  tracer 
after  you  up  the  Shenandoah.  God  knows 
why  it  missed,  I  don't.  I  could  have  sworn 
there  was  daylight  through  Jack  Ma ver ing's 
head.  Missed  again.  He  walked  in  on  me 
in  Mrs.  Mavering's  sitting-room  and  made 
me  feel  like  a  wet  hen.  I  put  my  head  in  my 
pocket  and  walked  out.  What  else  could  I 
do?  You're  going  to  Hagar.  All  right,  I'll 
show  you  where  to  go.  What  more  can  I  do? 
I'm  telling  you  all  this  now  from  policy." 

"  And  I'm  calling  no  names,"  Gard  remarked. 
"  Mavering  professes  to  have  a  great  admiration 
for  you  as  a  practical  practitioner.  You're 
probably  right  to  come  along." 

"  Oh,  I  figure  pretty  well.  I  was  a  fool — but 
still,  that  thing  was  figured  pretty  well.  I'd 
have  won  out  finally  all  right  if — " 

"  I  object  to  what  you  have  in  mind  to  say — 
298 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

prefer  to  think  you  wouldn't  'have  won  out 
finally,  if — '  Better  not  speculate.  We'll  call 
that  a  stipulation/' 

Map  lifted  his  brows  and  settled  himself 
more  comfortably.  A  change,  an  expression 
of  relief,  slipped  over  his  big,  harsh-boned  face, 
the  only  sign  of  the  tension  that  he  had  been 
under. 

"  Stipulations — that's  what  I  want.  If  there's 
anything  to  be  done  to  restore  amiability,  good 
God!  it's  surely  my  part  to  do  it." 

Gard  looked  out  of  the  window  and  was 
silent. 

Green  meadows  and  brown  fallows  moving 
past,  white  houses  under  aged  maples,  hills 
of  climbing  pasture  lands  and  pale -green 
forests.  Did  men  carry  any  sullen  burdens  in 
this  valley?  Better  drop  them  and  go  unbur 
dened  into  Hagar. 

"I  suppose  there  might  be  a  sort  of  public 
duty  involved,"  he  said,  "  which  interests  me 
just  now  about  to  the  extent  of  an  empty  medi 
cine  bottle.  I  flung  the  last  one  at  Mrs.  Maver- 
ing's  black  cook.  You  remember  Sabrina? 
You  couldn't  even  break  glass  on  her.  Do 
you  think  of  taking  up  regularly  with — I  beg 
your  pardon — with  a  criminal  career?" 
299 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

"Criminal!     A    criminal's   a   fool.     I'm   no 
fool,   or  never  was  before.     I  lost  my  head. 
That's  only  once.     Criminal !     Why,  look  here ! 
What  do  you  make  out  of  this  world  you  and 
I  have  been  shovelling  dirt  in  now  some  years? 
Isn't  every  man  in  it  for  himself  and  against 
his  neighbor,   if  his  neighbor's  in  his  way — 
which  he  partly  is,  always?    Do  people  go  into 
society  to  amuse    themselves    or   each  other? 
Themselves,  of  course.     And  business  is  com 
petition,  and  competition's  private  war  accord 
ing  to  rules  of  custom.     I'm  supposed  to  be  a 
lawyer.     That's  a  succession  of  jobs  at  beat 
ing   somebody   else  and   getting   paid   for   it. 
This  civil  war  is  one  collection  of  private  in 
terests  against  another  collection.     The  South 
was  getting  beaten  in  business — held  a  losing 
hand — wanted  to  break  up  the  game.     That 
meant    a    fight.     Take    you    and    me.     You 
wouldn't  let  me  out  of  this  if  you  saw  anything 
more  in  it.     You  don't  see  anything  more  in 
it.     I  don't,  either.     I'd  do  exactly  the  same, 
for    the   same   reason.     Never   shove   a    man 
farther  than  you   need  to  make  your  point. 
I  don't  compete  with  you  any  more  in  anything. 
I  keep  out  of  your  wray  and  avoid  offence.     For 
the  rest,  I  compete.     The  law  is  an  artificial 
300 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

line.  The  line  is  moved  now  and  then.  At 
one  time  it's  criminal  to  lend  money  at  interest 
and  innocent  to  fight  a  duel.  Another,  it's 
the  other  way.  That's  all  right.  But  a  man's 
a  fool  not  to  fight  inside  the  line  as  it  happens 
to  stand.  There's  room  enough/' 

Gard  thought  he  sawr  some  of  his  own  phi 
losophies  in  caricature.  They  looked  unlovely 
enough  in  caricature.  Map  was  an  interesting 
man.  If  peculiar,  it  was  rather  that  his  mind 
was  so  sharp -edged,  unqualifying,  absolute. 
It  refused  to  see  shades.  It  saw  hard  out 
lines  and  felt  the  impact  of  surfaces.  Gard 
thought  that  at  one  time  he  would  have  found 
him  still  more  interesting  and  would  not  have 
felt  this  repulsion  from  him.  Probably  con 
valescence  was  a  fastidious  state.  He  turned 
away  to  the  window.  There  was  a  domed 
mountain  in  sight,  its  spurs  thrust  forward 
into  the  valley,  sides  covered  partly  with  a 
young-leaved  forest,  partly  with  pine  and 
hemlock,  and  its  bald,  rocky  head  bare  in  the 
sunlight.  The  train  stopped  at  a  little  station 
by  the  river.  The  old,  battered  stage  rolled 
them  away  slumberously  over  an  echoing 
covered  bridge,  across  the  valley  bottom  lands, 
where  the  zigzag  fences  and  the  calling  of  the 
301 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

ploughman  to  his  team,  the  bluebird  on  the  zig 
zag  fence,  and  the  slim  white  birches  along 
the  mountain  spurs  all  seemed  in  the  same 
concord  with  the  ancient  earth  and  child 
like  sky.  The  silent,  misanthropic  stage-driver 
looked  the  kin  of  the  country-side's  slow  vege 
tation. 

The  road  swung  around  the  mountain  and 
went  up  through  a  dim  green  avenue  of  pines 
and  hemlocks,  and  below,  in  its  bowldered 
crypts  and  gorges,  poured  a  stream  with  white 
foam  and  mysterious  song,  or  sometimes  lay 
still  in  black  pools.  The  steep  slope  of  the 
mountain  was  on  the  left.  The  road  climbed 
steadily,  and  came  out  of  the  woods  at  last  not 
a  mile  from  the  village  in  a  cup  of  the  hills  of 
Hagar. 

At  the  cross-roads  Morgan  stepped  out  and 
Gard  followed. 

"The  house  is  behind  the  church  there/' 
Morgan  said,  shortly,  and  moved  to  walk  away, 
but  stopped  and  turned  half  around  when 
Gard  spoke,  listening  with  his  mouth  set  and 
yellow  brows  drawn  low. 

"I  dare  say  you'll  succeed,  you  and  your 
philosophy,"  said  Gard,  slowly,  looking  towards 
the  church  and  the  house  behind  it.  "I  dare 
^302 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

say  I  sha'n't,  in  that  way — or  care  to,  very 
much.  Competition  doesn't  seem  to  me  worth 
while." 

Morgan  was  silent.  The  battered  stage 
had  rolled  away  down  the  hill  to  the  post-office, 
where  Mr.  Paulus  came  out  for  the  mail,  and 
Thaddeus  Bourn  followed  after  him.  Thad- 
deus  looked  up  the  hill,  dropped  the  iron  point 
of  his  cane  on  the  stone  step  with  a  click, 
and  stared  blankly.  Mr.  Paulus,  mail-bag  in 
hand,  stopped  and  followed  the  direction  of 
Thaddeus's  eyes.  The  stage -driver  climbed 
down  from  his  seat  and  joined  them. 

"I  don't  care,"  Gard  continued,  "a  blank 
cartridge  what  you  did  or  tried  to  do.  There's 
no  stipulation  except  that  we  keep  out  of  each 
other '  s  way.  Is  that  satisfactory  ? ' ' 

"That's  all  right."  Morgan  hesitated,  and 
brought  out  with  apparent  effort:  " You'd 
better  look  in  the  cemetery  first;  I  saw  some 
thing  there,"  went  his  way  with  long  strides, 
and  disappeared  down  the  first  dip  on  the 
Cattle  Ridge  road. 

"There's  a  cemetery,  very  true,"  Gard 
thought,  and  went  towards  it,  past  the  min 
ister's  picket  fence  and  neat  gate  to  where  the 
mournful  hemlocks  stood  in  meditation.  And 
303 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

there  some  one  in  a  black  dress  was  kneeling 
and  planting  flowers  over  a  new  grave,  and 
near  by  was  a  tall,  gray  stone,  and  thereon, 
graven  in  large  letters : 

"SIMON   BOURN, 

"BORN  DIED  

"REMEMBER  ME." 

Morgan  swung  along,  and  looked  not  to 
right  or  left,  nor  cared  if  any  villager  speculated 
on  the  singular  sight  of  "  one  of  the  Map  boys  " 
observably  bound  for  the  square  house  on  the 
hill;  past  the  mill  where  Job  Mather  watched 
his  slow  millstones,  past  the  mill-pond,  the 
blacksmith's,  and  the  rambling,  low  farm-house 
that  hived  innumerable  Durfeys,  through  the 
stone  pillars  of  Squire  Map's  gate,  up  to  the 
square  house  on  the  hill. 

The  door  was  locked.  He  rang  the  bell,  and 
waited  some  time.  The  place  seemed  half 
deserted,  unkept,  the  walks  littered  with  last 
year's  rotting  leaves. 

The  door  opened  suddenly  and  Squire  Map 
nearly  filled  it  with  broad,  bowed  shoulders. 

"I've  lost  her,  dad." 

"Come  in,  Morgan/' 
304 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

The  latter  followed  into  the  dining-room 
and  they  sat  down.  Opposite  him  on  the  wall 
was  the  portrait  of  his  mother  in  her  bridal- 
dress.  A  stately  lady  always,  somewhat  cold. 
She  seemed  to  wear  her  bridal-veil  as  a  kind 
of  drapery  for  her  pride.  Morgan  spread  his 
large  hands  on  the  table  and  looked  at  them. 

"I  played  like  hell  for  it." 

"No  doubt.     Go  on." 

He  told  his  story  coolly  and  without  omission. 

"I  suppose  you  are  a  worse  man  than  your 
brother/'  said  the  squire  at  last.  "He  is 
more  scrupulous.  I  liked  you  better.  You 
have  more  candor,  carry  more  weight.  I  have 
not  been  a  scrupulous  man." 

Morgan  was  looking  at  the  portrait. 

"What  did  you  want  me  to  lose  for?    You 


won." 


"Won!  No,  I  lost.  So  will  you,  soon  or 
late.  Better  soon  than  late."  He  followed 
Morgan's  eyes.  "Your  mother  —  I'd  as  lief 
she'd  have  died  twenty  years  earlier." 

"This  sort  of  thing  is  futile,  dad.  Why 
don't  you  come  out  of  your  shell?  Come  and 
get  into  the  push  again." 

"What  for?    From  my  standpoint  and  my 
age,  Morgan,  ask  yourself — What  for?" 
305 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

Morgan  laughed,  lifted  his  fists,  and  let  them 
fall  with  a  crash  on  the  table. 

"I'm  young  yet." 

"Oh,  there's  a  great  deal  in  that.  But  one 
draws  no  interest  from  time.  You  live  on  your 
capital.  But  there's  much  in  being  at  the 
beginning  instead  of  at  the  end— a  great  deal 
in  that." 

306 


Chapter    XXIII 

The  End 

"IT  is  this  way/'  said  Thaddeus,  "to  speak 
from  a  —  a  —  personal  standpoint.  If  Morgan 
Map  goes  to  the  cemetery  I  shall  not  wait  for 
my  mail,  but  go  and  —  a  — -  accidentally  inter 
rupt.  If  he  goes  north,  the  other  man  may  go 
there,  if  he  chooses.  I  shall  wait  for  my  mail/' 

"Your  standpoint!"  said  Mr.  Paulus,  heav 
ily.  "  Well — speakin'  from  young  Map's,  what 
might  he  want  in  the  cemetery?  Speakin'  from 
mine,  I'd  rather  he'd  go  there  and  stay." 

"  My  niece  Helen  is  at  present  planting  flow 
ers  in  the  cemetery — in  point  of  fact,  roots." 

Mr.  Paulus  was  aroused.  "They  might  do 
some  buttin' — think?" 

"Gals!  Shucks!"  The  stage-driver  climbed 
back  to  his  seat  and  drove  away.  Mr.  Paulus 
looked  after  him,  musingly. 

"Willard  Sickles,"  he  said,  "never  would 
have  nothin'  to  do  with  women.  He  was  born 
drivin'  mails!" 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

"Pun?"  asked  Thaddeus,  delicately,  with  his 
eyes  on  the  Four  Corners.  "Pun,  Peter?" 

"  Hey?"  Mr.  Paulus  was  still  thoughtful- 
abstracted.  "Lonesome  and  disgusted.  Born 
so.  It's  his  nature." 

The  two  at  the  Four  Corners  separated.  Mor 
gan  went  north,  Gard  towards  the  cemetery. 

"I  thought  they  might  do  some  butting" 
said  Mr.  Paulus,  as  one  grown  used  to  dis 
appointment,  and  went  in  with  his  mail- 
bags. 

Sundry  villagers  appeared,  drifting  slowly 
to  the  focus  of  the  post-office.  Thaddeus  took 
off  his  glasses  and  put  them  with  precision 
into  their  case. 

"  I  wonder  if  Pete  intended  a  pun  ?  Probably 
not.  Conversation  is  subject  to  accidents.  It 
is  a  pity  that  conversation  is  not — not  more 
secure." 

Gard  entered  the  cemetery  -  gate  and  went 
along  the  shrub-bordered  path. 

"Every  man  is  the  dungeon  of  himself,  but 
there  is  a  key  that  unlocks  mine." 

He  stepped  from  the  path  into  the  grass,  and 
Helen's  apron  was  full  of  a  mess  of  brown, 
earthy  roots.  She  started  and  cried  out,  and 
308 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

held  up  both  hands  to  him,  with  the  trowel  in 
one  of  them. 

"I  don't  like  my  life,  Nellie.  Won't  you 
let  me  into  yours?"  And  she  dropped  the 
trowel  and  said,  "Oh — why,  3res,"  in  a  tone 
that  sounded  like  an  after  -  climax,  and  Gard 
took  apron,  yellow  head,  and  all  into  his  arms, 
and  scattered  the  roots  beside  Widow  Bourn's 
placid  grave  and  Simon's  stone,  on  which  was 
graven  insistently,  "Remember  Me."  A  blue 
bird  warbled  and  cooed  to  himself  on  the  fence 
and  paid  no  attention.  The  bold  head  of 
Windless  Mountain  glimmered  in  the  sun,  that 
swung  low  and  near  it.  Presently  the  shadow 
of  Windless  would  sweep  over  Hagar  with 
noiseless  rush,  with  silence,  or  the  sleepy  twit 
tering  of  day-birds. 

"It  was  a  long  way  here,  Nellie.  I  went 
nearly  to  the  other  end  of  everything  to  find 
the  path." 

"  Do  you  really  love  me?    How  long?" 

"  Long  before  I  knew  it.  Do  you  mean  how 
long  am  I  going  to?" 

"No,  I  don't.     Look,  Gard!     These  will  be 

blue  violets  when  they  grow.     They  come  from 

behind  the  church,  and   mother  liked    them. 

But  you  belong  to  me  now,  and  you  mustn't 

309 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

stay  here.     It's  cold  under  the  hemlocks.     You 
must  come  out  in  the  sun/' 

They  went  back  along  the  path  to  the  gate. 
Over  the  fence  in  his  garden  the  minister  was 
planting  peas,  arranging  them  according  to 
some  theory  of  fitness,  perhaps  allegorically, 
and  humming  a  hymn  out  of  tune.  Knowing 
that  a  tune  was  a  spiritual  mystery  which 
Providence  did  not  permit  him  ever  thoroughly 
to  penetrate,  he  only  sang  when  he  thought 
himself  alone,  and  in  a  subdued  murmur.  The 
weather-vane  of  the  militant  church  pointed 
southwest  at  Windless  Mountain,  which  meant 
always  a  benevolent  opinion  about  the  weather. 
The  sun  slipped  behind  the  mountain,  and  the 
shadow  of  Windless  flowed  over  Hagar;  over 
Rachel  standing  at  the  lilac  gate,  waiting  for 
Helen,  and  liking  the  impersonal  peace  of  the 
hour;  over  Thaddeus  stepping  up  the  hill 
from  the  post-office,  and  formulating  certain 
reflections  on  the  use  and  abuse  of  accident 
in  the  practice  of  conversation;  over  Helen 
and  Gard. 

"You  must  learn  all  about  Hagar,  Gard. 
That's  the  minister.  He  always  pats  his 
peas  on  the  head  when  he  plants  them.  And 
that's  Windless." 

310 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

"Is  that  Windless?  He  looks  like  a  gentle 
man.  Let's  call  the  minister  and  let  him  pat 
us  on  the  head,  show  him  it's  a  world  of  kisses 
so  he'll  know  what  the  trouble  is,  and  tell  him 
to  ring  the  bell  to-morrow." 

"Nonsense.  Besides,  if  you're  going  to  do 
that,  I'd  rather  only  Windless  saw." 

"  You'll  be  famous  and  glorious,  won't  you? 
And  I'll  be  proud—" 

"Proud  in  a  tower?" 

"  Oh,  anywhere.  Properly  proud  like  Wind 
less.  But  we'll  like  best  to  be  in  Hagar,  be 
cause  that  will  be  home." 

"  I'll  be  something,  or  try  to  be,  if  you  want 
it.  I'm  a  tired  soldier  now,  Nellie,  on  sick 
leave.  I  told  the  adjutant  I  was  in  love,  too, 
but  he  wouldn't  put  it  in  the  permit.  Let's  go 
home." 

They  went  up  past  the  militant  church,  and 
Thaddeus  and  Rachel  waited,  smiling,  at  the 
gate  under  the  lilacs.  Simon's  epitaph  and 
the  fading  mountain  were  left  facing  each 
other  across  the  dusk.  In  any  issue  between 
them,  the  dignity  of  law  and  time  seemed  to 
be  with  the  mountain  as  against  the  personal 
claim,  yet  one  did  not  come  to  Hagar  to  learn 
among  its  twilights  that  humanity  was  de- 


"The    Debatable    Land" 

generate  nature,  or  that  the  instinct  of  its 
insistent  identity  was  lawless;  it  might  be  an 
amendment  in  the  process  of  making. 

"They're  coming/'  said  Thaddeus.  "The 
older  I  grow,  Mrs.  Havering,  the  more  I  per 
ceive  a  certain  dexterity  in  the  —  in  fact,  in 
event;  a  shell  now,  for  instance,  skilfully  ex 
ploded." 

Rachel  only  smiled  and  threw  open  the  gate. 

I  heard  a  pilgrim  near  a  temple  gate 
Crying,  "  I  have  no  fear  if  thou  art  Fate; 

Morn,  eve,  and  noon,  if  I  look  up  to  thee, 
Wilt  thou  at  night  look  down,  remembering  me? 

Nay,  then,  my  sins  so  great,  my  service  small'' — 
So  prayed  he  at  the  gate — "  forget  them  all; 

Of  claims  and  rights  a  load  the  while  I  keep, 
How  in  thy  nights,  0  God,  to  smile  and  sleep?" 

"  Pilgrim/'  I  said,  "  hath  He,  who  toils  the  while. 
Bade  thee,  of  burdens  free,  now  sleep  and  smile? 

Who  built  the  hills  on  high  and  laid  the  sea, 
Set  in  thy  heart  that  cry,  '  Remember  me.'" 

From  Persian  Moralities. 
312 

THE  END 


American   Contemporary  Novels 

LET    NOT     MAN 
PUT   ASUNDER 

BY    BASIL    KING 

This  is  the  tenth  of  the  twelve  One-a-Month  American 
Novels  to  be  published  during  1901. 

"  The  new  volume  in  the  American  Novel  Series,  which 
will,  we  doubt  not,  more  than  justify  that  undertaking 
in  the  eyes  of  American  readers.  Mr.  King  has  a  firm 
grasp  of  character ;  ...  he  handles  dialogue  with  epi 
grammatic  felicity,  and  he  has  something  to  say.  .  .  . 
Mr.  King's  study  of  his  heroine  is  an  admirable  perform 
ance.  ...  A  novel  worthy  of  the  notice  of  all 
thinking  and  observing  Americans.  Its  qualities  as  a 
story  are  deepened  by  its  meaning  as  a  study  of  tem 
perament  and  changing  social  conditions." — Richard 
Henry  Stoddard  in  New  York  Mail  and  Express. 

"  '  Let  Not  Man  Put  Asunder  '  is  clever,  spicy,  ab 
sorbing,  and  thought  -  inspiring — a  book  with  many 
missions.  ...  A  novel  in  which  the  problems  of 
unhappy  marriage  and  separation  are  very  seriously 
and  comprehensively  considered." — New  York  World. 

"  The  story  moves  through  unusually  brilliant  dialogue 
and  a  series  of  exciting  scenes  to  its  swift  and  inevitable 
conclusion." — Public  Opinion,  New  York. 

"  A  book  that  fairly  throbs  with  intense  interest  from 
start  to   finish.     ...     Its   characters   are  living   por 
traitures.     It   is    thoroughly   sane  and   sound." — Phila 
delphia  Item. 
Comments  from  various  reviewers  5 

Masterfully  handled." 

A  most  powerful  drama  of  life." 

As  timely  as  it  is  well  done." 

A  book  to  be  respected." 

Mr.  King  is  a  '  coming  '  man." 

Post  Svo.  Cloth,  Ornamented,  $1.50 

HARPER    &   BROTHERS,    PUBLISHERS 


American  Contemporary  Novels 

EASTOVERCOURT  HOUSE 

BY  HENRY   BURNHAM    BOONE 
and   KENNETH    BROWN 

This  is  the  first  of  the  twelve  One-o-Month  American  Novels 
to  be  published  during  1901. 

"  If  each  of  the  novels  of  American  life  by  American 
authors  which  Messrs.  Harper  &  Brothers  project  for  the 
current  year  proves  as  good  as  '  Eastover  Court  House/ 
the  twelve  volumes  will  constitute  a  decided  addition  to 
American  fiction." — Detroit  Fr<te  Press. 

"  Its  charm  lies  in  the  constant  succession  of  strongly 
drawn  pictures  of  life.  One  chapter  after  another  presents 
these  scenes,  as  sharply  outlined  and  deep  in  shadows  as 
an  artistic  photograph.  The  book  ...  is  absolutely 
fascinating." — Louisville  Courier-Journal. 

"  Set  in  the  midst  of  the  fox-hunting  and  cross-country 
regions,  there  is  the  hoof-beat  of  the  galloping  hunter  all 
through  the  story,  which  is  full  of  dry  humor  and  vivid 
pen-pictures  of  life." — Horse  Show  Monthly. 

"  The  horse  stories  are  the  best  since  David  Harum  s, 
and  quite  as  laughable  as  his." — Chester  Times. 

Comments  from  various  reviewers 
"  A  good  story  well  told." 
"  Strong  and  absorbing." 
"  Warm  with  life,  with  the  passions  and  emotions  .  . 

of  Virginia." 
"  Wholesome,  true  to  life." 

Post  8vo.  Cloth,  Ornamented,  $1.50 

HARPER    6-    BROTHERS,   PUBLISHERS 


American  Contemporary  Novels 

THE  SENTIMENTALISTS 

BY  ARTHUR  STANWOOD  PIER 


This  is  the  second  of  the  twelve  One-o-Month  American  Novels 
to  be  published  during  1901. 

"  A  novelist  who  sets  out  to  depict  a  character  like  Becky 
Sharp  is  likely  to  come  to  grief.  Hence  it  is  surprising  that 
Mr.  Pier  has  not  failed  in  portraying  the  social  exile,  Mrs. 
Kent.  The  novel  is  strong  and  clever." — Pittsburg  Com 
mercial-Gazette. 

"  It  is  a  yery  clever  novel.  There  is  '  story  to  it ;  there 
is  apt  phrasing  and  clear  delineation  of  character ;  there  is 
much  incisive  and  delightful  epigram." — Evening  Sun, 
New  York. 

"  If  the  cleverest  parts  of  this  work  had  been  entirely 
cut  out,  we  should  have  called  it  one  of  the  cleverest  novels 
of  the  season." — Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle. 

"  The  hook  is  characterized  throughout  by  keen  analysis 
and  a  delightful  sense  of  humor." — Chicago  Tribune. 

Comments  from  various  reviewers 
"  Mrs.  Kent  is  distinctly  American.  * 
"  As  interesting  and  unique  as  Becky  Sharp." 
"  The  book  will  be  a  success." 
"  A  rattling  good  story." 

"  A  vivid  study  of  contemporary  social  life." 
"  One  of  the  cleverest  novels  of  the  season." 

Post  8tw>.  Cloth,  Ornamented,  $1.50 

HARPER    &   BROTHERS,   PUBLISHERS 


American  Contemporary  Novels 

MARTIN    BROOK 

BY  MORGAN   BATES 

This  is  the  third  of  the  twelve  One-a-Month  American  Novels 
to  be  published  during  1901. 

"  It  is  written  in  a  style  unknown  nowadays,  .  .  . 
with  an  impressive  power  revealed  at  each  crisis  of  the 
tale,  which  makes  the  pulses  stir  and  the  eye  glisten.  What 
a  book  for  the  opening  of  the  twentieth  century!" — Julian 
Hawthorne,  in  the  Journal,  New  York. 

"  A  very  striking  book,  and  one  that  I  am  quite  sure  will 
take  an  enviable  place  in  line  with  record-breakers.  It 
is  the  third  of  the  '  American  Novel  Series,'  and  is  entitled 
'  Martin  Brook.'  I  finished  it  at  one  sitting,  so  intense 
was  my  interest  in  it." — Buffalo  Commercial,  N.  Y. 

"  The  third  of  the  '  American  Novel  Series,'  '  Martin 
Brook/  by  Morgan  Bates,  appeals  to  the  best  in  man  and 
woman,  and  is  a  credit  alike  to  author  and  publishers.  .  .  . 
'  Martin  Brook  '  is  indeed  an  American  novel,  and  of  the 
best  kind." — Philadelphia  Daily  Evening  Telegraph. 

"  One's  interest  is  caught  and  held  by  the  hero  from  the 

moment  of  his  first  appearance  in  its  pages.     .     .     .     There 

has  not  been  a  stronger  scene  [the  Hbrary  scene]  written  to 

revive  the  interest  of  jaded  novel  readers  for  many  a  day." 

— jV.  Y.  Commercial  Advertiser. 

"  The  story  is  told  in  a  vigorous  manner, and  is  certainly 
out  of  the  common  run  of  fiction  as  it  is  told  nowadays." 

—New  York  Sun. 
Comments  from  various  reviewers  5 
"  One  of  the  most  refreshing  and  natural  of  novels." 
"  As  good  as  it  is  charming." 
"  A  story  of  depth,  color,  and  action." 
"  It  is  refreshing  to  light  upon  a  story  like  '  Martin 
Brook.'  " 

Post  8w.  Cloth,  Ornamented,  $1.50 

HARPER    6-   BROTHERS,   PUBLISHERS 


American  Contemporary  Novels 

A  VICTIM 
OF    CIRCUMSTANCES 

BY  GERALDINE   ANTHONY 

This  is  the  fourth  of  the  twelve  One-o-Month  American  Novels 
to  be  published  during  1901. 

"  It  plunges  the  reader  directly  into  the  social  whirl 
of  New  York,  and  the  hand  that  detains  one  there  all 
through  an  intensely  interesting  succession  of  functions, 
flirtations,  and  incidents,  ...  is  the  hand  of  one  who  has 
seen  something  whereof  she  writes." — New  York  World. 

"  There  is  more  than  one  thinly  disguised  portrait  in 
its  pages — so  we  are  told/' — Mail  and  Express,  New 
York. 

"  Bobby  Floyd  is  probably  the  most  disagreeable  and 
wholly  exasperating  cad  ever  put  into  an  American  novel. 
.  .  .  There  is  love-making  all  through  the  book." — 
The  Times,  Washington,  D.  C. 

"  They  fall  in  love  amid  most  delightful  surroundings 
of  tennis,  boating,  and  driving." — Exchange. 

Comments  from  various  reviewers  5 

"  Devoid  of  problems  or  mental  complications." 

"  A  book  for  a  summer  day." 

"  Has  the  correct  New  York  social  atmosphere." 

"  Decidedly     a     fascinating     book     about     attractive 

people." 

"  Full  of  touch-and-go  conversation/' 
"  They  all  revel  in  smart  talk  and  repartee." 

Post  &vo  Cloth,  Ornamented,  $1.50 

HARPER    <&•    BROTHERS,   PUBLISHERS 


American  Contemporary  Novels 

DAYS    LIKE    THESE 

BY  EDWARD  W.  TOWNSEND 

This  is  the  fifth  of  the  twelve  One-a-Month  American  Novels 
to  be  published  during  1901. 

"  Mr.  Townsend  has  given  us  a  novel  that  is  a  strong 
and  vigorous  picture  of  contemporary  New  York.  He  tells 
his  story  with  the  gayety  and  charm  and  light-hearted 
high  spirits  of  one  to  whom  the  passing  show  of  life  is  still 
full  of  interest,  and  he  succeeds  in  interesting  the  reader. 
There  is  not  a  dull  line  in  the  book." — New  York  Journal. 

"  The  love  story  is  well  told,  but  the  chief  interest  of  the 
novel  lies  in  its  contrasted  pictures  of  New  York  life — from 
Fifth  Avenue  to  Hell's  Kitchen."— Cleveland  Plain-Dealer. 

"  Mr.  Townsend  has  made  a  very  striking  and  daring 
use  of  his  experience  as  a  newspaper  man.  .  .  .  He  has 
gone  about  his  business  with  vigor  and  decision.  . 
There  is  hardly  a  chapter  which  does  not  stand  out  through 
sheer  force  of  the  author's  fund  of  anecdote  and  observa 
tion  and  humor." — New  York  Commercial  Advertiser. 

"  It  is  an  eminent  success.  .  .  .  We  recall  very  few 
novels  of  the  past  year  that  we  have  read  with  such  sus 
tained  interest  " — The  Churchman,  New  York. 

Comments  from  various  reviewers  3 
"  The  book  has  countless  good  things. 
"  '  Days  Like  These  '  is  full  of  life  and  New  York." 
"  A  kaleidoscopic  yet  homogeneous  picture  of  modern 

New  York  life." 

"  His  pictures  are  vivid  and  true." 

"  Mr.  Townsend  writes  incisively,  vigorously.' 

Post  &vo.  Cloth,  Ornamented,  $1.50 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  PUBLISHERS 


American  Contemporary  Novels 

WESTERFELT 

By  WILL    N.   HARDEN 

This  is  the  sixth  of  the  twelve  One-a-Month  American  Novels 
to  be  published  during  1901. 

"  A  good,  ingenious  story,  which  grows  more  and  more 
interesting  as  the  author  proceeds." — Richard  Henry 
Stoddard. 

"  It  is  a  highly  dramatic  presentation  of  the  warring 
forces  of  human  passions,  conscience,  and  distorted  re 
ligious  beliefs.  The  story  from  first  page  to  last  is  vibrant 
with  sustained  power." — The  Outlook,  N.  Y. 

"  I  have  only  words  of  praise  to  write  of  '  Westerfelt.' 
It  is  an  uncommonly  good  story,  wherein  is  presented  a 
very  interesting  picture  of  American  life  as  known  in  the 
author's  native  state." — Boston  Times. 

"  Mr.  Harben  has  lived  among  North  Georgia  people; 
he  has  learned  their  ways  and  their  life ;  and,  learning  this, 
he  has  woven  these  people  and  their  life  into  a  story  full  of 
charm  and  truth.  It  has  the  best  claim  on  the  attention  of 
the  public — it  is  thoroughly  readable." — Atlanta  Journal. 

Comments  from  various  reviewers  5 
"  A  love  story,  pure  and  simple." 
"  Unusual  and  unhackneyed." 
"  Full  of  dramatic  elements." 
"  One  of  the  best  novels." 
"  Strong  throughout." 

Post  8vo.  Cloth,  Ornamented,  $1.50 

HARPER    6-    BROTHERS,   PUBLISHERS 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $I.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


WAR  31   1935 


LD  21-100m-8,'34 


606665 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


